


I will fix you

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, Dog Fighting, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock takes it upon himself to acquaint a newly freed Jack into society. And works on his own demons along the way.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. 
> 
> Note: The dog fighting in this fic is a consensual activity between adults.
> 
> Title: Fix You by Coldplay

Brock knew he was lucky to find friends and when he did find those who could tolerate his presence he latched on. Still the beauty of friendship didn’t erase his heritage. Being accepted into a rag-tag group didn't change his breed.

•• •• •• ••

Growing up a hybrid was tough, nowadays people took to it a bit kinder. Social media was chalk full of happy parents showing photos of their mix-breeds first shift. ‘She’s got mama’s beautiful eyes and daddy’s stature!’ which was all fine and dandy when mom shifted into a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and dad was a Boston Terrier. No schools were going to look at her and shake their head at her aggressive tendencies or require a muzzle be brought just in case her temper got the best of her. 

Or maybe Brock was just bitter. 

Bucky always said that like it was no big deal but Bucky hadn’t ever been refused an apartment because they didn’t like what he could shift into. Most Shift-biases had been eradicated but some still remained. Wild Shifters had more opportunity than they did in the past — equal rights or whatever — but it was still a far cry from equality. The rules were implemented by the non-Shifter authority and that made it even worse.

Brock scowled down at his cellphone, loathing strangers for the common courtesy of not producing a monster. 

“Brock, you ready?”

He put down the cellphone, jamming his bag into the locker. “Always.”

“Five minutes and I need you out by the ring.”

Brock looked at himself hard in the cracked mirror. The room smelled like blood and sweat and pain. He thrived on it really, so maybe growing up they weren’t wrong. Aggressive wasn’t a bad thing if you took a hold of it. Tonight he was pretty sure he was going against a Boxer shifter which would be simple. Easy money, little chance of injuries he’d have to explain away at work. 

Blood sports were uncivilized, according to most. They were more prevalent in wild or canine shifter circles. 

Brock didn’t see the harm. It helped center him, a good focus and outlet for all the ways life fucked him over. Golden eyes looked back at him. They were nothing like his father’s so he imagined it came from his mother. 

He wouldn’t know however, she was true to her wild roots and took off. 

‘Just dropped our pup on me and ran off,’ his father used to grumble when he was particularly drunk. ‘Like I ever wanted to say I gotta halfbreed for a boy.’

Every sharp word and painful memory was good at times like this. That door where Brock kept all his natural instincts contained was able to open up and Brock’s lip began to curl into a snarl as he tugged off his shirt and pants. 

He wore his breed proudly on night like this. Broad chested and packed with muscle, he was all hard lines and compact tissue. He was an intimidating hundred and thirty pounds, with the colorings of his father’s breed and sharp features of his mother’s. His fur was reddish brown, his ears tipped in black. He had his father’s ears but the pointed muzzle of his mother. 

Shifting down, a low snarl was already buzzing in his throat and chest. The anger was so sharp and poignant he could taste it and he wanted to attack his own reflection for a beat. Brock kept his head however and shouldered away, stalking stiff legged toward the hall connecting the fighter’s locker room to the spectator ring. He pushed himself back on his haunches beside the bouncer who always loitered there to keep any rambunctious gamblers for wandering back with intents of getting fighters to ‘make it big’.

The Doberman Shifter Brock could recognize as a non threat when he was human, but when he was connected with his animal form all bets were lost. He tilted his head up at the Shifter, still in human form, and pulled back his lip to bare his teeth, eyes glued on that soft spot about his throat. 

Never could he go for the throat, the purpose of the fights was to rip into each other not kill each other, but instincts still trumped his first thought. 

“Every single goddamn night, Rumlow?” Ward shook his head. “This new guy is insane. Goddamn Presa Canario, can you believe it?”

Presa Canario. Brock didn’t give a shit what breed someone he wasn’t fighting was. He was just aching, literally salivating, at the need to have his jaws locked onto something. To taste hot, fresh blood and know he was the one that spilled it. A yelp rang out and Brock’s eyes turned forward at the known vulnerability. The Presa Canario Ward had referred to had an English Mastiff by the scruff, rearing back and shaking his massive head. 

The mastiff howled, which was the white flag of defeat. The snarl the Shifter let out made Brock’s fur stand on end up he let the Shifter drop. The Mastiff got her feet, staggered a few times and the Presa Canario snapped his massive jaws by her hock, urging her to move the fuck out faster. By the sheer number of gamblers throwing their hands up, Brock could tell that most hadn’t expected the outcome.

It was just instinct to size up those around him, whether he was getting into the pit with them or not. Who was the biggest threat? Who did he defer to? Not the Mastiff who accepted her defeat and a towel from a crestfallen man. A tangle of blonde hair was matted and she bled heavily from several wounds. They weren’t fatal of course and Brock didn’t doubt that come tomorrow she would be walking into her workplace with a plethora of excuses just like everyone else there.

The newcomer stood proud however, red brindle colorings neat, fur shining a bit under the low lighting. He trotted proudly forward, toward Brock who bristled immediately. The so-called Presa Canario looked at him, eyes attentive, with a black mask and a scar along his jaw. His rectangular body was all muscle and Brock was unsure of his standing in dominance as his cropped ears remained upright. Not even a flick of recognition or assurance that he wasn’t looking for a fight. In fact, he was difficult to read with absolutely no body language to go from.

He was two inches taller Brock realized in muted alarm as he stood nearly snout to snout with Brock, grayish green eyes burned into his. Brock growled in warning, lip curling to expose his teeth. The Shifter did not growl a warning, did not even give the common courtesy of a dominance display. Instead the sound of powerful jaws clicking together jarred his hearing and those teeth that were so impressive from afar, brushed the side of his muzzle. 

Brock snarled in a way he saved only for the most intense of fights, lurching forward to snap at the challenger’s throat. His entire body was keyed for a fight to the death — with this Shifter it most certainly would be. As his tongue flicked over his teeth it grazed something cold and metallic. 

A collar.

That stopped Brock short, body stunned still momentarily.

The Presa Canario seemed to back down though he did not flee with his tail tucked between his legs and belly dragging low. He strode past Brock as if their near fight had been nothing. As if he wasn’t wearing a collar. 

“That is not a guy I’d wanna mess with,” Ward said quietly. “You’re up, Rumlow.”

He hesitated however watching the beast turn to man. The collar was still there, thick and offensive. But, as Brock shook himself free of the event, he reminded himself that it was none of his business. 

The Boxer was fast in the ring, but he was still a pup in the world of bloodsport. He cried like Brock had severed his life vein when Brock buried his teeth into the skin about his throat and howled his defeat far too soon. 

When Brock went back to the locker room, a bit more grounded than when he’d arrived, he didn’t expect the new guy to have stuck around. But there he was.

“Hell of a stunt you pulled,” Brock growled.

Tall and darkly handsome, he had black hair that been pushed back. The scar Brock had noticed was just as prominent in his human form, though the unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth distracted Brock slightly. That and the collar was gone.

“Says the guy who gets pissed at you for walking by.” 

Brock rolled his shoulders, biting back the urge to growl and snap like the feral halfbreed he told everyone he wasn’t. 

“Maybe watch how you’re walking toward me next time.”

The guy smiled a bit and suddenly held out his hand. “I’m Jack. Know any place around here that serves decent liquor at this hour?”

Brock wasn’t sure why his defense seemed to die down at the offer but it did. 

“My buddy’s got a bar.”

•• •• •• ••

“I watched your fight,” Jack had bought the first round which Brock had to appreciate.

He took it as an apology for the unsportsmanlike behavior at the pits. It may have been underground fighting but there was still dignity to uphold. Facing your attacker was one thing but pulling something so sneaky and deadly was a good way to get yourself killed. Jack hadn’t seemed at all phased and that caught Brock’s attention. 

“You like what you saw?” Brock couldn’t help but sneer as he tipped the bottle in his direction.

He got a toothy smile that wasn’t quite amused nor was it guarded. 

“You fight like a Wolf. But you’re not one, not completely.”

Brock took a moment to bring the bottle to his lips and a long drink to make it casual. Really though, shame coiled in his stomach. Old prejudice was hard to overcome after all. 

“Nowadays you don’t go around asking people’s breed,” Brock sounded a bit bitter to his own ears. 

He hated that. It was practically an exposed weakness, him rolling over in acceptance to a backhanded comment. He was fool for coming out here. It was pushing past one and the crowd was thinning out. Brock was regular enough that save for some sideways looks and established boundaries, they left him well enough alone. 

With Jack it was different. 

Walking in the bartender has stiffened up looking at the man with a wary loathing that begged aggression. But the bartender was a Lynx shifter and smart enough to know when to back down.

Brock didn’t remember learning much about Presa Canario shifters but he made a note to look further into them. 

“I’m not asking. Besides there’s nothing wrong with fighting like a Wolf. It suits your body type.”

The snort Brock let out in response was edging toward a growl but Jack just leaned back in the chair. His easy-going demeanor was throwing off Brock. All the signs said ‘no threat’ but there had been no sign to the bite that could have been fatal. 

“I only caught the end of yours,” Brock admitted.

“It was only three minutes.” Brock almost choked on his beer. “I’ve been fighting a long time, I’ve become a bit too good.”

He grunted in lue of a response and took another drink. 

“I’ve been told my fighting style is cowardly.” Whatever it was that was making him so loose tongued was a mystery. “It’s the only way to fight though, when it’s three against one.” Brock finally said.

Jack whistled lowly and his smile seemed genuine, leaning forward like they were sharing a secret. In a way, maybe they were. 

“Those are the best fights though, aren’t they? The more of ‘em that pack against you the more they underestimate you.” Jack shook his head fondly. “Wolves are meant to be in a pack but Wolfdogs don’t always play well with others.”

Brock was rapidly becoming uncomfortable with the conversation topic. How many times had he been told that exactly? ‘You’re not a good fit, you won’t work well with others’. Being ganged up against also did not spark fond memories; he thought of being cornered after school, learning to fight because if he didn’t he’d get hurt. 

The Wolf style of fighting was best suited for those kinds of attacks. Move quickly, lash out harshly, and dance out of reach. Brock figured out that the key was to throw them off balance and get them on their backs because that was the ultimate surrendering position. 

“Who told you about the Pits?” Brock asked, if only to get the conversation off himself. He could still hear the yelps and gnashing of teeth of the fights from his youth. 

“Everywhere has Pits.” Cryptic and not all helpful, but Brock had deduced that it was his only form of answering questions. “I figured that since they lifted the ban, I might as well check out America. Somehow I ended up in D.C.”

“Ban?”

“Ban. You know, regulation and law limiting who can go where.” Jack waved his hand. “Anyway, it’s nice here. I think I’ll hang around.”

Brock’s bottle was finally empty and he wasn’t sure what to make of this guy but he figured it was best to cut ties. 

“Glad to hear it. Thanks for the drink.” He tossed a few bucks down as a tip. “You should really check out the monuments.”

Jack bore his teeth in an unsettling grin. “Maybe. I’ll see you around Brock.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, it’s a big city.” Brock replied.

“We’ll see.” 

Brock pretended he couldn’t hear the smile in his voice. 

•• •• •• ••

Each species of shifter had it own quarrels and law it obeyed. These were the laws of nature, not of society which held its own. Jack didn’t know the world in which he had joined so suddenly. Around him were people, more people than he had ever met or would have cared to meet. 

Not all were Apex shifters but years of survival had taught him to trust no one. ‘We are not created equally,’ Thorne always told him when he was just a pup. ‘That is why you are so special.’ Jack had been given Thorne’s last name — Rollins. He ought to hate it, for all that he put him through, but he was unable to. From the day he shifted down and confirmed that Thorne had taken the right pup from its mother, training began. 

For hours Jack would be asked ‘who are you’ to which ‘Jack’ was not the proper answer. Mistakes required correction and when they walked on two feet that correction came by Thorne’s hand. Flinching away made the punishments more severe. Through frequent blows or multiple runs of the exercise Jack realized that the only proper response to ‘who are you’ was ‘a killer’. 

By the time he was six he could leap great bounds and had learned a slew of attack phrases. It wasn’t until he reached teen years that his instincts kept locked away were released. Submission was a choice, not a requirement and one day he did not cower in the Spitz shadow. The white beast had snapped at him once, as a warning, and Jack, using his lessons, went for the throat. He did not bristle or show his teeth unnecessarily. Thorne said the best weapon was one you didn’t hear load. 

Still in late puppyhood Jack’s teeth were sharp and tore through the unsuspecting mentor’s throat. The mistake was on Thorne for rearing back as if to break away. Through his own momentum the jugular was cut and warm blood sprayed over a startled Jack. 

It was an end of an era but the beginning of the most significant portion of Jack’s young life. 

•• •• •• ••

Brock swiped sweat from his brow with a heavy exhale. Road construction wasn’t a glorious profession but it kept Brock busy and focused. It was a decent outlet, not as good as the Pits but it took the edge off. 

Rogers, the CS for this particular job called for lunch and Brock gladly abandoned the jackhammer and his hard hat. Barton had suggested they run up the road to the pizza place and it seemed like the best option between all the green juice and vegan shops in this particular neighborhood. 

Brock would never understand the vegan movement. Pulling away from your roots and eating like a different species would never make sense. Barnes jumped up onto the bed of the truck with the paper bag lunches he packed for him and Rogers every day. 

“Some guy’s staring at you,” Barnes said nodding towards the sidewalk. 

Brock turned, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off but it was the guy from the Pits. 

“Uh,” Brock drawled. “One second.” 

Clint nodded leaning against the truck while Brock waited for space in traffic to run over. 

“How the hell did you find me?” Brock wasn’t certain if he was impressed or disturbed. Maybe both. 

“I have a good sense of smell.” 

“This is my job. If they find out what I do in my free time there’s a very good chance they’ll cut me loose.” 

Jack looked confused. “I’m not here to advertise your hobbies. I thought we’d get a meal together.” 

Brock’s eyes widened. “A meal.” 

“Yes.”

“You hardly know me. I could be a serial killer.” 

“That’s very true. You don’t strike me as the type.” 

Brock laughed in disbelief. But, he was intrigued. He’d enjoyed getting a drink with him, despite how painful it was to admit it. 

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m not paying.” 

Jack grinned, all teeth and part of him bristled in reply. The other part liked it. “So it’s a plan. Meet me at the bistro by the bar we went to at 7.” 

“You need reservations to eat there.” 

“I know. I have one.” 

“What if I said no?”

“You didn’t. Your friend looks impatient, I should go. I’ll see you tonight, Brock.” 

Brock returned and made a flimsy excuse of mistaken identity. 

He could tell that Clint didn’t believe him but he didn’t press. 

** ** ** **

Brock dressed down the meeting, unwilling to seem too eager to get to know this stranger more. He stopped by the hostess, gave Jack’s name, and was walked to a private corner. Brock hadn’t taken him to be well off but apparently he wasn’t doing too bad for himself despite just arriving in the city. 

He was dressed casually as well, a dark button down and jeans. 

“You came.” He sounded a bit surprised and Brock was proud of that. 

His entire life he learned being unpredictable meant having more control over the situation. It was good to see he was still well practiced. 

“I did. So, why are we here?” Brock took his seat and picked up the list of wine. If he wasn’t paying he was going to enjoy himself. 

“You interest me.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Yes. Get whatever you’d like.” Jack waved towards the menu. “So you’re a laborer. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” 

“How did you even find out where I work?” 

“There aren’t many wild halfbreeds out there, your scent was easy to track.”

Brock looked up sharply at the slur. “It’s hybrid, asshole.” 

Jack laughed and raised his hands in defeat. “Sorry, that’s what we call shifters like you where I come from.” 

“Well around here that’s a good way to attacked.” 

Jack just smiled, picking up his own menu. Brock scanned through the options and settled on the most expensive glass and set it aside in favor of looking for an equally pricey entree. He wasn’t sure why he had come here, why he thought that the guy from the Pits would be tolerable company. There was a reason Pit fights were anonymous -- they were all assholes in and out of the ring, Brock included. 

“I’ve upset you.” Jack didn’t look up from the menu. “I didn’t mean any offense. I’m not from the States.” 

“Oh yeah? Where did you come from?”

“Telde.” 

Brock was shit at geography so he just stared dumbly until Jack elaborated, “The Canary Islands.” 

“Oh.” Brock wasn’t too sure what to make of that, or, honestly, where that was. “What made you come here?” 

“My owner was part of the Spanish Mafia,” Jack said casually, still looking over his options. “In the end they deemed me a ‘victim’ and awarded me a generous portion of his money. He’s dead now so I’m trying to find a place I like.” 

Brock’s jaw dropped and his mind reeled. He’d heard of non-shifters holding shifter’s captive and treating them like pets or guard animals. It was usually the exotics like tigers or lions. But when it came to canine shifters they preferred wolves or big dogs like Jack. Brock thought back to the collar. 

“I… Fuck, man. I’m sorry you went through all that.” 

Jack looked up at him with a smile. “I’m a killer, it’s what I was born and bred to do. It was my job and I did it well.” Jack sighed a bit. “It’s what I was trained to do and now I can’t even do that.” 

“Aren’t you happy to be free?”

Jack hummed. “No. Freedom is hard. I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

Brock felt bad for giving him such a hard time earlier. He wasn’t one to pity anyone, much less a shifter like Jack, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must be going through. 

“That sounds hard. How’re you coping?”

“I’m not here to talk about me,” Jack reminded him. “You asked a question, I answered. Now, I'm going to ask you a question.” 

“Okay.” Brock said, a bit taken aback by the sudden change. 

“Why do you hate what you are?” 

Brock sputtered in objection. “I don’t hate what I am.” he said heatedly. 

“You do. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen plenty of shifters like me who hated protecting their master. You have that same look in your eyes.” 

“I…” Brock wanted to say it was too deep for a dinner conversation but Jack had just dropped his entire life story without so much as a warning. “I told you. It’s hard growing up around here with wild blood.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. It’s good, it makes you strong.” 

Brock laughed. “Maybe but everyone is afraid of you. Even the people I work with treat me like a bomb about to detonate. It gets old, y’know. No one will ever trust me.” 

“The States used to ban my kind from coming here.” Jack said. “There are only a handful of apartments that I could apply for.” 

“It oughta be illegal,” Brock grumbled because he understood that struggle. 

It wasn’t like he could lie, he had to provide a copy of his birth certificate which clearly listed his mother and father’s breed. Malinois and a Tundra Wolf, a match made in hell for Brock who had always wanted a normal life. It wasn’t fair to punish someone for being born, to treat them like a rabid beast because the breed may have, possibly, been aggressive once in the past. He felt for Jack on that front. 

“This world was made for humans, not shifters.” Jack commented. “There’s a reason we’re monitored. We’re not equal. Instead of bitching about it, take advantage of it. There’s a lot of wealthy people who would like a shifter bodyguard.” 

Brock’s nose crinkled. He was well aware of that position, usually the go-to for wild shifters should struggled to get normal jobs, but the requirement was that they wore a band (read: a collar) with breed information, shifter’s name and the employer’s name. It was a disgusting display of ownership. The waiter returned, thankfully, ending a conversation too heavy and personal for a casual dinner together. Although the candle flickering between them and far too nice venue made him think it may have subtly been something else. Brock ordered a T-bone and Jack got the same. Brock wondered if it was coincidence or something more. When the waiter walked away to get the requested wine Jack turned his green eyes toward Brock once more. 

“You’re an impressive fighter. I hope we fight one day.” 

“I don’t fight friends,” Brock said before balking at what he said. 

Jack tilted his head curiously. “I’ve never had a friend before. I suppose you don’t fight your friends, do you?”

Brock wasn’t exactly sure he was ready to be making any new friends, much less someone who identified as a killer — it went against his life goal of being as normal as possible. Brock and Jack sipped on wine while waiting for their food, the conversation finally more appropriate for their surroundings. Jack did, at one point, say that full meals were better than table scraps. Brock had shown his horror — a shifter of Jack’s size couldn't have survived on meager bits of food —  
and Jack explained that keeping your shifter half-starved was effective in making them more aggressive. 

He suggested going to the Pits hungry next time. Brock mentally filed it away but found it horrifying either way. 

Brock wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was either a deeply wounded man or he was a raging psychopath who had taken an interest in Brock and that was probably not a good thing. When the meal came, he ate quickly, pulling the plate closer to him like he thought Brock would touch it. Some shifters were food aggressive instinctively but early school classes taught the habit out of them. But, Jack hadn’t had that. He tried to match the eating pace (there was no savoring, just gulping down to halt hunger). Jack pushed the empty plate forwards when he was done and sipped on wine. Brock finished shortly afterwards, a bit disappointed he hadn’t gotten a chance to savor it. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” 

Brock nodded his head. “I take it you’ll be there?”

“Yes. Maybe we’ll be pitted again each other.” 

“I really hope not.” 

Jack frowned. “Why? Because we’re friends?” 

“Yes.” Brock said because that was easiest. 

Jack hummed looking a bit stumped still. Jack picked up the tab as promised, paying with two crisp bills and they walked out together. Brock watched as Jack lifted his chin to scent the air. He’d never been around a shifter so connected with his instincts. Like a dog made human rather than a human made dog. 

“It’s going to rain. You should get a cab.” 

Brock lived two blocks away so it wasn’t worth the money. His eyes flicked upwards at the clear night sky. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” 

Jack shrugged. “Okay.” 

Brock thought about walking away and leaving this strange man to his own devices but his gut twinged at the idea of leaving someone who was clearly lonely. Brock was no bleeding heart so he had no idea why he said, “Do you have a phone?”

“Yes. An iPhone. I was told they were the best.” 

Brock huffed a laugh. “Depends on who you ask. Let me give you my number -- so you don’t show up at work again.” 

“Am I...not supposed to do that?” 

“Typically, no. Here,” he passed back the phone after his contact information was loaded. “You can text me or whatever.” 

Jack looked down at it and hummed.

“You’ll be there tomorrow?” he asked again.

“Yes Jack. I’ll be there.” 

“Good.” 

He turned around and walked away. “Uh, bye to you too,” Brock mumbled under his breath as he started off.

He made a block and a half before torrential rain hit all of a sudden and in seconds Brock was soaked to the skin. Apparently Jack wasn’t all bullshit. 

•• •• •• ••

Arriving felt different. He was keyed up, itching in his skin but it felt...different. He never watched the show but he walked down and nodded at Ward. 

“Hey, always weird to see you human. What’s up?” 

“Is, uh, the Presa Canario, has he fought yet?” 

“Lined up after you. Why? Hope you’re not trying to bite outta him, he’s wild. Oh, no offense.” 

Brock was only slightly irked by the comment. He supposed he could only be half offended. “None taken.” 

Grant clapped him on the shoulder and Brock turned on his heel with a snarl and Grant held his hands up in defeat. “Sorry, don’t touch Brock, noted.” 

Brock turned his eyes on the fight, a Husky and a Australian Cattle Dog were dancing around each other, clearly new and inexperienced by the hesitation. People came to the Pits to get hurt and cause hurt. It was a self inflicted punishment for simply existing. 

There were two types of people, those who understood bloodsports and those who were privileged enough not to need it. 

He looked on long enough to see the Husky shred the Australian Cattle Dog’s ear to ribbons before he went back to get ready. He wasn’t all that surprised to see Jack there, the collar back around his throat. 

“Why do you still wear that?” 

Jack looked down at it. “I’ve had it since I was pup. My master gave it to me. It’s a...tribute.” 

“A tribute.” Brock echoed. It didn’t feel right to try and undermine it with its symbolism to everyone else. “You’re going after me.” 

“I know.” Jack rolled his shoulders. “I hope they put me against someone good.” 

“They go by weight,” Brock replied, peeling off his tee. “They try to keep the beginners together. Your last fight was probably a fluke. They’ve probably upped you up to experienced I’d say.” 

“Has anyone ever died?” 

Brock looked at him. “That’s not the point of this. Shifters start dying, they shut us down.” 

“Fights to the death are more intense. It’s a real challenge.” 

“Sure.” 

And he wanted to fight Brock? No fucking thank you. 

“I don’t understand this world,” Jack said suddenly. “I start to think that, maybe, I have a hold on things but… I don’t know how to do anything but fight.” 

Brock felt bad for the guy, he honestly did. He could hear the fight ending unfortunately. “I’ll talk to you after you match. Try to, uh, not kill anyone.” 

Jack grinned. “I won’t. For you.” 

Brock shifted down, those wild feelings taking center stage as he prowled forward. Most shifters came directly from the crowd of on-lookers. Brock usually had no interest in watching others -- this was his outlet not his entertainment -- but tonight that was set to change. A Kugsha awaited him, already bristling. Brock snarled as he stepped into the pit. Ward latched the door and the two began to prowl around each other. The Kugsha tried the age old, nip the paws and then knocked them off balance trick. Brock was smarter than that and when he surged forward to snap at his paw he lurched forward and sliced open his shoulder. Warm blood wet his muzzle as he danced around the snap towards his scruff. Everything faded from mind, this moment was all that existed. 

The Kugsha gave him a wide berth, shoulder bleeding heavily already. They exchanged bites, a slash of teeth here, a tear of flesh there. It was all superficial, both well versed in the art of blood sports. That was what Brock ached for when he stepped into this pen, the chance to feel hot blood across his tongue, for the momentary pride that made him feel mightier than man. Like he was an alpha. It was all a delusion but in the Pit they made it a reality. Bristling with red stained fangs they could both be mistaken as wild shifters. Brock was bleeding, not heavily, but notable. His fur wasn’t as thick as a wolf’s thanks to his father’s genes but it did provide a small amount of protection from the sharp teeth of his opponent. The Kugsha made another dive towards Brock’s paw and Brock leapt forward in time for teeth to click dangerously near his ear. Brock spun around with the agility of a wolf and slammed his body against the Kugsha who slammed into the boards of the pen. He righted himself immediately and tucked his head down as he tried to counter with a slam of his own.

The muted sounds of on-looks played at the sound track as they stared at each other, bristling and snarling in fury. His heart was hammering and it was taxing and he loved every second of it. There were a few fake out rushes before Brock got bold and they clashed, teeth glancing together as they tore into each other. Brock fur was stained with blood and he didn’t know if it was his or his opponents. It wasn’t often that he had fights like this, ones where he was truly evenly matched and one misstep would send his win streak to a halt. Brock’s muzzle was torn open and in return Brock tore the kugsha’s shoulder to the bone. 

It was fatigue that got him. Brock was slowing down. Kugsha were runners, they had the ability to run miles at a time. Brock’s tongue was lolling out as he panted, the taste of his own blood was cloying but he refused to back down. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The Kugsha buried his teeth into his flank when Brock tried to dodge another attempt to throw him off his feet. Brock yelped, a sound he’d never released in this Pit. Brock was obdurate. He wouldn’t call mercy, wouldn’t roll over. It wasn’t who he was. 

So Brock ran directly at the kugsha, his last bit of energy and they clashed on their back legs. While the Kugsha tried to bite at his throat, Brock grabbed his scruff and threw his body backwards. He hit the ground on his side and the Kugsha, taken off guard, had been dragged on his back. Brock sprang up and stood over him, body taxed to the point that his legs were quivering. Blood from his muzzle dripped down onto the losing shifter. They called it and Brock stepped away. Just walking back to the locker room was an excursion, he was moved slower than the Kugsha who was equally banged up. His companion, a human, looked at Brock as the shifter slunk over to him. 

In the locker room he laid down for a minute, panting and pained. He heard the sound of footsteps. “Fuck, Brock. You did amazing out there. I was thinking you were going to let him get the better of you.” 

Brock couldn’t muster much more than a whine. Even shifting back seemed impossible. But he couldn’t watch Jack’s match in here. Slowly, painfully, he took his human form and cringed as he looked in the mirror. Shifters healed fast but not instantly. He’d have to call out of work tomorrow morning...and maybe the next day. 

“You good?” Jack asked, stripping down. 

“‘m not dead.” Brock wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no. 

“Then it’s a win.” 

Jack sunk down into his animal form and, despite all the pain he was in, he had to admire him. He was built like a tank, a force to reckon with even before you saw his teeth. The only thing that took away from the intimidating appearance was the chain around his neck. He followed Jack out, worries about the way he was unfazed, he wasn’t like the rest of the people. He wasn’t fighting to work their violence out. Jack was here because it was the only thing he knew. This was his home. His past, his present. And, undoubtedly, his future. Brock wasn’t a bleeding heart, but he felt bad for him. 

So he was going to fix him, show him how the world worked, give him true freedom. 

And he was going to start with that collar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tries to wrap his head around the fact that murder is not acceptable. He also gains a few friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful Kali. Thank you darling!

It wasn’t as simple as telling Jack that he needed fixing. He wasn’t so sure he would take it as positive and his disposition towards killing made him a bit hesitant. But Jack wanted to understand the world. Brock could help him with that, show him that he was more than the attack dog he was raised to be. Jack was owed that much. Sure, he didn’t know all the details of his time working for the Spanish Mafia, but Brock intended to show Jack that past and present were too different things — even if Brock was so sure that was true. 

Sore and aching he thought about it as he climbed the steps to his fourth floor apartment. Everything in the building was concrete and exposed metal, the bare minimum for the most volatile of people. He passed by a Wolf and she didn’t so much as flinch at the blood soaked clothing. Chances were she had her own Pits she frequented. Each step was a struggle and when he made it inside his apartment he tossed his keys aside and made a beeline towards the bathroom. He rinsed his mouth out, washing the Kugsha’s blood and then tossed back a handful of painkillers to take the edge off. No amount of aspirin was going to erase the pain but dulling it was enough for Brock. He didn’t want to be pain-free, that defeated the purpose of visiting the Pits. 

He changed into fresh clothes and cast a wary look at the clock. It was near three and three was a good time to call and tell Rogers he’d come down with a stomach bug and wouldn’t be in. Sometimes he wondered what they’d do if he waltzed into work in such a state. Would they inquire or would they know and politely ignore it. Would Rogers, his supervisor and friend, fire him for taking part in illegal activities? Would any of his other friends still look at him the same way or would they assume him to be the uncivilized, wild brute the world said he was? 

He laid down with his churning thoughts, doubting if he was even capable of making Jack understand his own humanity. He had a hard time separating instincts and reasons himself. Maybe what Brock was hoping for was to protect Jack from becoming him. To be so unhinged, so disconnected that he fought like a beast to make himself feel remotely human. One extreme to the next. Polar opposites. A man with two faces. 

Brock didn’t want Jack to be him. That was clear regardless of how much Brock loathed the idea. Jack shouldn’t live his life feeling jaded. He shouldn’t have to hide a portion of himself from his friends. He wanted Jack to be happy to be free, not upset about it. Brock was still having trouble understanding why, though he knew that he never really could because he hadn’t lived it. It made his problems seem insignificant, like he was whining about nothing. Brock was stubborn by nature, a trait from both sides of his heritage. He couldn’t help that. The best he could do was direct it at something productive instead of overanalyzing himself and taking out his frustrations with his teeth. He had something to focus on, something that actually mattered. 

•• •• •• ••

Brock: I’m going to show you how the real world works

Jack: ok 

Brock frowned down at his phone. He had expected him to be elated or reluctant. His passive acceptance sat wrong with him. Rereading his message he thought it could have come off commanding. Jack had been commanded enough in his life. 

Brock: only if you’re okay with it

Jack: it’s ok

Brock sucked on his teeth. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy and now he was out of his element. Normal life shouldn’t have been so daunting but it was. He spent the day tidying up his apartment and ran a few errands, ignoring the sideways looks he was given. He was putting away his groceries when someone knocked on the door. He thought it was the kid down the hall asking for ketchup but he found himself face to face with Jack.

“Uh, hi.” he stammered. “How’d you know where I live?” 

“You weren’t at work and there’s not a lot of apartments that allow...hybrids. From there it was just following your scent.” Jack looked past his shoulder. “Your apartment is very small.” 

Brock rolled his eyes. “Not all of us got a big settlement,” he snipped before realizing how callous it sounded. “Sorry. I live within my means. I figure I should let you in.” 

Jack shrugged. “We can talk here if you want.” 

“Okay, lesson one: normal people don’t have personal conversations with one person in the hallway. C’mon in. You want a beer?” 

“Sure. Why aren’t you at work? You don’t seem gravely injured.” 

“People ask questions. When you get banged up in the Pit, you don’t go into work. It’s practically advertising what you do in your free time.” 

Brock tossed a can towards Jack. He cracked it open and slurped at the foam. 

“My master used to fill my bowl with beer after a particularly good kill.” 

Brock had to fight the urge to wince. Jack said it so openly, a fond memory. He didn’t understand how horrible it was. 

“It’s better from a can,” Brock settled on. 

Jack nodded his head. “It is. I preferred sangria. It wasn’t often I got something sweet.” 

“Well you buy whatever you want now,” Brock reminded him. “Drink whatever you want, when you want. Well… Don’t go crazy with the alcohol. It’s harder to fight base desires when you’re half in the bag.” 

“The bag?” 

“Oh, more than buzzed but not quite drunk. It’s a, er, a place where you get into a lot of trouble.” 

“Who punishes you?” Jack asked curiously. 

“No one. Well, the cops I guess. But no one is going to correct you for doing something wrong unless it’s illegal.” 

Jack took a drink and said, “Everything is illegal. I miss when things were simple.”

Brock bit his lip unsure of if he was ready to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “What’s simple for you?” 

“My kennel. The yard. Feeding time. Protecting my master.” Jack seemed pleased simply recounting it. But then the sparkle in his eyes died. “I couldn’t protect him from the civil guards. I was ready to die protecting him but they… They shot me. It missed,” Jack tapped the scar Brock had been curious about. “When they realised I was a shifter, they used a tranquilizer. I wasn’t strong enough to fight it. I wasn’t strong enough to protect him.” 

Maybe this was going to be more complicated than expected. 

Jack looked expectantly at him, confused about his silence. “Oh, I’m sorry that happened,” was all Brock could think to say and it sounded especially lame to his own ears. 

“I can’t bring him back. I need to find a new master though.” 

“No you don’t.” Brock said with conviction. “I understand that you thought — think — what your ‘master’ did to you is okay but it’s not. You’re not an animal, Jack. Well, not completely. You’re part human too. It’s not okay for anyone to be owned, human or shifter.” 

“It’s all I know how to do,” Jack insisted, looking a bit distressed finally. 

It wasn’t that he wanted Jack to be put into an emotional state, but it was refreshing to see he was capable of normal emotions despite his upbringing. 

“I’ll show you,” Brock reminded him. “The world isn’t so bad. I’m sure it’ll beat living with your master.” 

Jack looked extremely skeptical. “I doubt that but, okay. I am interested to see what could be better than things were.” 

“Tomorrow,” Brock said because he was still sore as hell. He wasn’t ready to show Jack the ropes of daily living. 

Jack hummed and looked down at his beer. “Do I have to leave now?” 

Brock looked at the lonely man in front of him. He had kinda hoped he would leave but looking at his sad, lost green eyes quickly had him thinking differently. “Nah, you can hang out.” 

Jack nodded his head in confirmation and Brock turned on the television to fill the silence. 

•• •• •• ••

Jack’s favorite spot was on top of the kennel, sunbathing. The wooden box was almost tall enough to see over the tall white washed fence wall that ran around the entire property. Jack had his own space, as far as his chain went was his. If anyone but his master dared step within his land he would lunge forward, teaching them what was his with his teeth. It was worth all the punishment that would come later because it was delivered by his master and with a certain fondness. ‘This one’s a killer’ he would always say while the trespasser would be dressing the wounds where huge chunks of flesh had been carved out.

His master kept his stick close when he was around Jack. Not because he thought Jack would turn on him but because he was so fiercely loyal that should someone even remotely threaten his owner he’d rip them apart until they were unmoving and his muzzle stained with warm blood. When the stick struck the back of his head Jack was to stop and step back to his master’s side. Usually the lessons taught by Jack’s teeth stuck and his master was awarded the respect he deserved. The purpose of his life was to stand by his master’s side, aching to feel his bare hand stoke down his back. Human contact was hard to come by, no one wanted to be within reach of such a ferocious beast. It was Jack’s pride and his downfall. Even a killer needed to be treated with humanity. 

But it was forbidden to walk on two feet — he had to be ready at the drop of the hat to fight to the death to protect his master. Sometimes those who crossed his master had their own beasts and Jack to tear through them to get to their owner. Shifter blood didn’t taste as good as humans. 

When Jack was a pup he hated the taste, bitter, hot and viscous against his tongue. But it tasted better than kibble so his taste buds adapted. Only once had Jack needed his master to save him. A quick drawn gun had a Jaguar lying dead. A bullet was quickly fired at the Jaguar’s owner and Jack, bleeding heavily and wounded, finished the job. No one came for feeding time for three days and Jack understood why. He’d never fought a big cat and wasn’t used to claws. But he had done poorly. He deserved his punishment. He ran in circles around the metal pole the other end of the chain was attached to, to try and exhaust the hunger gnawing at his stomach. 

Jack needed to be perfect. It was his job, it was his sole reason for existing. 

•• •• •• ••

Jack left when Brock got up to fix dinner. They had hardly exchanged two words during reruns of Judge Judy but Brock had noticed that Jack watched the door as if he expected someone to walk in and kill them both. Brock wondered if it was a natural instinct or something taught to him in that hellhole. It felt a bit aggressive to think about it that way but… It felt wrong to Brock. A lot about Jack felt wrong and a week ago Brock would have said hell with it and abandoned his efforts but he’d gotten into his head he could do this and he had to. 

He had to drag himself to work the next morning. The wounds had closed up enough to pass off as accidents and the bruising on his side and chest from ramming into the Kugsha’s body were yellow at this point and easily hidden under his clothes. It’d be hot but it was easier than questions he couldn’t answer. 

“Feeling better?” Rogers asked when he stepped onto the site. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s going around,” Clint said with a frown. “Nat’s laid up.” 

Brock had heard a lot about his girlfriend but no one had actually seen her so there was a secretive debate on if she was real or one of those ‘she lives in Canada’ types. But no one was willing to call him out on it. 

“It’s hell but you get over it,” Brock said and he hoped it was true. Then again he was shifter, they got over illnesses faster than a human. 

Work went as it usually did, hard labor had a certain pulse to it. A trained set of movements that made it feel like they’d been doing it for years. When they breaked for lunch Brock opened his lunch pail for the turkey and cheese he’d made only to see them all staring at him. “What?” 

They kept on staring and Brock turned to see what it was and he nearly shifted he was so startled. Jack was standing there, dead eyed and far too close. “What the fuck, Jack?” 

“What side do you put the stamp on?” 

Brock’s pulse was still racing as he started at the envelope. “I… Jesus Christ.” Brock dragged in a deep breath to calm himself. “What did I tell you about showing up at my work?” 

“It’s important. I have to mail in my rent. I have it here, see?” 

He pulled out a bundle of bills and Brock gaped. “You don’t send cash in the mail,” Brock snapped. “You write a check or send a money order.” 

“What is a money order? Where do I find a check?” 

Jack knew how to make reservations but didn’t know about checks and money orders. How had he found his way here of all places without such basic knowledge was anyone’s guess. He was lucky not to have been robbed — well, not that the robber would fare well. He could have laughed at the idea of a mugger attempting to mess with Jack. 

“Brock?” Clint said questioningly. “I thought you said you don’t know this guy?” 

“He’s my friend,” Jack said before Brock could explain. “He’s showing me how the world works.” 

“Oh.” Clint said and they were all staring at him now. 

“It’s due tomorrow.” Jack said.

“Then you need to send a money order.” 

“I have money, I don’t need to order more.” Jack said, sounding a bit frustrated. 

“If you need to help your...friend, I can give you an extended break.” 

Brock was hot and sweaty and didn’t want to take a cab to the store that sent them four blocks away. “Yeah, okay. Thanks Steve.” 

“No problem.” 

“You’re helping me?” Jack asked, still holding the money out in the open. Brock snatched it and stowed it away before someone got bold and Jack killed them. 

“Yeah, I’m helping you.” 

Brock knew his friends would have far too many questions for him when he returned but he tried to focus on the here and now. He hailed a cab and Jack told him about buying stamps and how they didn’t have change for a hundred and wouldn’t just keep the change so the lady had paid for it out of pocket. 

“You don’t just give people money,” Brock explained. “It’s a good way to be taken advantage of. And then you’ll be broke.” 

“I want to get a job.” Jack replied. “Like you. Can I work with you?” 

Hard labor was a fitting job for shifters like them but inviting him to his workplace felt way too fast, assuming should he be hired that he’d be with Brock’s crew. Plus he didn’t fully trust that Jack wouldn’t volunteer the information that his previous favorite hobby was murdering other shifters. The chances of them being okay with that was slim to none. 

They arrived and Brock asked the driver to wait and keep the meter running. The cabbie agreed and idled in a parking spot while Brock hustled into the store. He was sure he looked like a wreck with his reflective vest and sweaty face. Jack was far more put together — at least he knew how to dress himself. They waited in line for an old lady paying in exact change. 

Getting the money order was quick because Brock took over. With it sent out they went outside and got back into the cab. 

“Thank you,” Jack said and Brock grunted. “Were those people your other friends?” 

“Uh, yeah.” They were a crew always paired together and they had become good friends over the years. Brock liked to hang out on the fringes initially but they didn’t tolerate his distance well and Brock found himself dragged into more social events until he had to agree they were friends. “They’re a good group.” 

“You’re stronger than the rest of them. They listen to you?” 

“Uh, no. They listen to Rog-Steve. He’s the supervisor and he uh, banded us all together. But no one’s really ‘in charge’.” 

“You could kill him,” Jack pointed out and the cabbie looked back at them through the rearview mirror. “You’re stronger.” 

“We don’t kill people, Jack. It doesn’t matter who’s strong and who’s weak. We’re friends, we all respect each other.” 

Jack looked stumped at that and Brock realized how much work they had ahead of him. “Look,” Brock said as they neared the site. “You can’t look at the world as who can trump who. Consider....consider it this way, everyone's the same.” 

“But we’re not the same.” 

“Pretend we are.” 

“And when they try to kill me? Or you?” 

“They won’t.” 

“What if they do?” 

Jack seemed genuinely worried about it. Brock knew there must have been a reason he was hellbent on it, why he was so ready to fight. 

“If they do, I’ll protect you, okay? If it happens, I’ll be there to back you up. But around here, they won’t. I promise you.” 

Jack’s face twisted into an expression Brock couldn’t read. “You promise?” 

“I promise,” Brock said again. “Go home and take it easy, I’ll text you.” 

Jack nodded and Brock paid for the meter’s current amount despite Jack’s objections. He hurried back to work and while he could feel their eyes burning and nearly hear their questions the sound of the jackhammer made conversation impossible. But after, when they were packing up, the questions came full force. They wanted to know about Jack (“Just this guy I met, we’re friends, sorta.”) and why he didn’t know what a check was (“He grew up in a cash only household.”). There were still more questions but Brock managed to escape them by hailing a cab. He knew that this wasn’t anywhere near the end of the conversation, especially tomorrow when they had their Friday night drinks. Brock was content to spend his night trying to premeditate answers to the difficult and awkward questions. 

He was an idiot for not realizing that his decision to help Jack wouldn’t interfere with his life as a whole. It wasn’t like the Pits which could be isolated to a single evening where the rule of Pits was to never talk to anyone you saw there in daily life. But Jack wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be ignored or pushed aside to maintain Brock’s comfort. And he didn’t want to do that to Jack either. He deserved more than that. Brock said he was going to help so he was going to do that. Even if it made for awkward conversations. 

The more he thought about it the more he thought that maybe it would be a good thing. Assuming Jack was okay with it, would be nice to have other opinions on how to best acclimate someone like Jack into society. Steve had grown up in a rough area where he got into his fair share of fights. But a Golden Retriever tussling with a couple of Labs or Collies wasn’t anything near what Brock had gone through and what Brock had gone through paled in comparison to what Jack had been through. 

Brock fiddled with his phone for a moment, debating sending a text to see what he thought about recruiting a bit more help but a text was too impersonal for what he was asking so he hit the call button. The ringing stopped abruptly but only silence greeted him on the other end. “Uh, Jack?” 

“Yes.” 

Brock almost smiled. “When people call, you answer with ‘hello’.” 

“Oh. Hello.” 

“Hello,” Brock said. “Would you be okay with talking with my friends about...about getting you used to the world.” 

Jack was quiet. “I trust you,” Jack eventually said. “If you think it’s a good idea, I am okay with it.” 

Brock was uncomfortable with the weight put on him but he nodded. “Okay. We‘re going to have drinks at the bar we went to. Around 5. Do you want to meet us there? We’re saying I met you in the bar, okay? You can’t mention the Pits.” 

Jack agreed and when Brock hung up he was still nervous but slightly less so. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jack wouldn’t bring it up but there was always a chance he could slip up. He didn’t have the best social skills. He was, honestly, looking forward to his bluntness towards Steve, Bucky and Clint. He shouldn’t have but it wasn’t often that Clint was rendered speechless and he had the feeling being told he would be easy to kill would do it. Brock would of course explain that Jack wouldn’t. But Brock always had a bit of a morbid sense of humor. 

The next morning he answered their quizzing looks with, “I invited him out with us tonight. I hope you guys don’t mind.” 

“Of course we don’t care,” Steve said. “It’s just.. I’ve never seen you like this. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yeah, not to be a dick or anything but that guy gives me major bad guy feels,” Clint said. “He’s a shifter right?” 

“Yes. He’s a good guy,” Brock prefaced, as he slipped on his vest. “He’s just… He was disconnected from the world for most of his life and he’s trying to figure out how things work again.” 

“Oh yeah, Nat was a bit funny at first.” Clint said and Brock internally rolled his eyes. 

“You ever gonna bring her around?” Bucky asked with a smile. 

Clint sighed quietly, “She doesn't drink really so she won’t want to meet us at the bar. Plus she works a ton so I feel bad making her go out, y’know?” 

Brock had seen a photo of ‘her’. She was a redhead who looked, as awful as it sounds, far from Clint’s league. He was a good looking guy just not enough so to be with a woman like that. But they let him carry on his lie although it mystified him how long he’d kept it going. Brock tried to drown himself in his work to keep the nagging worries from taking over. He was almost sorry when it came time to pack up. 

“Looking forward to seeing your ‘friend’, Rumlow,” teased Clint. 

“Looking forward to seeing your girlfriend, Barton.” he replied. 

Clint sighed sadly. “Hopefully one day she’ll leave the apartment.” 

“I thought she worked a lot?” Bucky asked. 

“Oh, she does. She works from home.” 

They all exchanged eye contact before nodding like they believed him. 

The Lynx nodded at them when they stepped in and Jack was already there, a beer in hand, sitting where they had sat before. It felt like ages despite it being only a week and a half earlier. Jack stood and Clint hesitated, deferring to the dominating aura that swirled around Jack. Brock had adjusted to it now but he knew this was the first time they’d been in a situation like that. Steve was staring defiantly at Jack and Jack was looking back at him, upper lip twitching, offering glances at the white teeth that would turn to a mouth of razor sharp teeth if Steve didn’t back down. 

“Jack, you don’t need to do that.” Brock stepped between the two of them. “This is Steve, he’s my friend.” 

It took a moment but then Jack sat back down casually and took a drink of beer. Steve stared at Brock as if he’d grown two heads. The best he could do was offer a smile and buy the first round. They sat in silence at first and Brock went around giving names. Jack said a short ‘hello’ to each person (with some hesitation when it came to Steve) and when they were done he looked at Brock for further instructions. Luckily they had Clint there who was never one for silence. 

“So, where’d you meet Brock?” 

Jack looked at Brock and then at Clint. “Here. We drank beer together.” 

“It’s a good place,” Steve said, injecting himself into the conversation. 

“It’s a good place.” Jack echoed. 

Bucky asked, “What do you like to do?” 

To which Jack immediately said, “To fight.” 

Silence struck the table as they looked wide eyed at the shifter who looked drolly back at them. He took another drink and Bucky looked at Brock and said, “What the fuck.” 

“I told you he was still adjusting to normal life.” 

“Where the fuck was he, prison?” 

“I didn’t go to prison,” Jack said and the table turned a wary eye on him. “I was in jail for two months before they freed me. The world is complicated.” 

“Why were you in jail?” Steve asked as if it was an appropriate question. 

Brock had no idea he’d been in jail prior to the settlement he was given but either way, he didn’t think it was a polite line of questioning. “I was protecting my master.” Jack sounded wistful. “But I failed.” 

The realization hit them all at once as Steve sighed out a soft, “Oh.” 

“Brock says everyone is equal, that dominance displays aren’t normal. But everyone I see tries it. Like you.” Jack turned his attention on Steve who looked empathetic. “I could kill you easily. Why wouldn’t you submit?”

Steve’s blue eyes went wide and turned to stare at Brock. He sipped his beer looking pointedly away. 

“Well, I’d prefer it if you didn’t kill me.” Steve said as Bucky snapped, “I’ll kill you first, fucker.” 

Jack didn’t look too fazed by it. “You’re just a Husky.” 

Bucky looked too startled to be mad. “I… How do you know that?” 

“Your scent. I’ve fought seventeen of them. They all died.” Jack took another drink of his beer and frowned down at it. “I’m going to buy another.” 

Jack stood up and Bucky turned to stare at Brock. “You didn’t tell me he was a fucking psycho.” 

“He isn’t. Look, he was treated like a guard dog his entire life. He grew up learning how to kill so… Give him a break. He won’t hurt you.” 

“And you know that how?” Steve asked dryly. 

“Because he knows better. He… Well, he might not be the articulate person — he’s very blunt — but he’s trying to figure out how to be free. Go easy on him.” 

Steve nodded and the other two bobbed their heads afterwards. Maybe Steve was the alpha in their group. 

“Natasha’s not gonna believe this.” Clint picked up his cellphone. “I wonder if she’d come over to help. She was treated like a guard animal too, sorta, y’know. It’s why she doesn’t like to go out.” 

Brock felt too frayed to play along. “Listen Clint, we all know she’s not real, okay? You can drop the act.” 

Affronted, Clint looked at Brock. “She is too! I showed you her picture.” 

“You can steal a photo from Instagram pretty easily.” Brock argued. 

“Look, I’m going to call her.” 

Clint put it on speaker and it rang once before a generic voicemail played, saying the numbers instead of an actual name. “Uh, she’s probably busy.” 

“I know she is,” Steve said, shooting Brock a glare. 

He drained his own beer and went to where Jack was standing, waiting for the bartender to be free. “How are you handling things so far? Regret agreeing?”

“They seem like...normal people. I could learn from them.” Jack looked back at them. “I don’t like the Steve one.” 

“He’s a good guy. I know you didn’t have a great meeting but… He’s like you in a way, he grew up having to fight.” 

“Like you.” 

“Something like that.” 

Jack grunted and ordered two beers. Brock’s teeth worried his bottom lip before he said, “If you’re not comfortable around them, we’ll leave. I’ve got your back right? I promised.” 

Green eyes bore in him before Jack blinked and nodded his head. “I’m not afraid of them,” he elaborated, grabbing the beers. “They’re just… I don’t know. They’re strange.” 

“You’re strange to them,” Brock countered. “The world is strange. But you’ll have the ropes down soon. For example when you get back to the table you could apologize to Steve. Clear the air between you.” 

“For what?” 

“For baring your teeth like some savage. In fact you should apologize to the table for saying you could kill them.” 

“But I could.” 

“It’s not polite to share that.” 

“Oh.” That seemed to click. “My master liked people to be polite. When they weren’t I punished them.” 

“Well politeness isn’t met with punishment in the real world,” Brock said quickly. “Don’t attack rude people.” 

Jack sighed. “You never get a chance to attack anyone in the real world.” 

Brock was delighted he made that connection and tried not to be too worried about how disappointed he was. 

“Unless they attack me.” Jack said in a triumphant tone. 

“Exactly.” Brock was starting to think his efforts weren’t in vain. 

They sat down and whatever conversation they had been having came to an abrupt halt. Thankfully Jack wasn’t socially literate to be bothered by it. Brock was, and he was deeply bothered by it. He knew what he said to Clint was nothing short of an asshole move but they had to understand how tightly wound he was. Weren’t good deeds supposed to feel good? 

“I’m sorry I said I could kill you all.” Jack announced as he sat down. “And I’m sorry I acted that way towards you...Steve.” 

The blond looked surprised. “Oh, well, thank you. I’m sorry that I didn’t deescalate the situation, I know you’re still figuring things out. I hope we can be good friends.” 

Jack assessed him. “Okay. I can have two friends.” 

“Uh, excuse me, I want to be friends with the scary new guy.” 

Jack looked at Clint, tilting his head. “Okay,” he granted, “I can have three.” 

“If you’re just accepting friends, I’ll volunteer.” Bucky said. 

“I don’t like Huskies much but yes, you can be my friend as well.” Jack looked at Brock. “But you’re still my first friend. I like you most.” 

“Ouch,” Clint sighed and his phone chimed. “Nat is coming! Ha, in your face Brock. She is real.” 

“Let’s just see if something suddenly comes up.” 

Clint held up his middle finger. 

They were on their third round and Steve was explaining that typically it was considered impolite to tell someone you didn’t like what they could shift into (Jack had apologized on his own and looked to Brock to make sure he had done so correctly). Clint interrupted the conversation with an exclamation of, “Nat! See, I told you she was real Brock.” 

Brock turned around to see the woman striding it. She looked around suspiciously as she walked. Clint got to his feet to greet her. She had her hair up in a high ponytail, with milky skin and green eyes. 

“I hear you guys think I don’t exist.” She pulled a chair and took a seat, crossing her legs. “I also hear there’s someone who thinks he can kill Clint.” 

“I can,” Jack said, glanced at Brock. “And I’m sorry?” 

Natasha laughed. “I suppose if you’re sorry it’s okay. Tell me, can you kill me?” 

Jack smiled widely at the question. “No, not you. The only fight that I lost was to a big cat. You’re a Leopard...but I can’t tell what kind.”

“Snow Leopard. I’m fairly certain I could kill you.” 

“Maybe not. My friend, Brock — he says he’ll back me up.” 

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a halfbreed,” Natasha said with a nod. “I heard about you, Wolf Dog” 

“They prefer hybrid.” Jack volunteered. 

“Yes, hybrid.” Her attention turned back onto Jack. “Maybe we can fight one day.” 

“To the death?” Jack asked, perking up. 

“Society frowns on that unfortunately. I used to kill for a living. Now they tell me I can’t.” 

“You’re so powerful, why do you spend your time with someone as weak as him,” Jack jutted his chin in Clint’s direction. 

“Yay, you hurt my feelings.” Clint sulked. “She happens to love me for my sparkling personality.” 

Jack wrinkled his nose. Natasha smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, long red nails catching the light. “He’s my Clint. I love him.” 

“Hm.” Jack still looked confused. 

Natasha introduced herself to the table and explained that yes, she really did work from home and yes, she hated to go out. Apparently Clint’s unbelievable tale was true and Brock offered a meek apology. Clint was a good sport and agreed that from their end it definitely seemed like a stretch. 

Jack and Natasha then engulfed in their own conversation, Jack oversharing about his past and in return Natasha did the same. Their neighbors kept looking back in concern at hearing about how Natasha had been raised in an organization in Russia where she was trained to track and murder targets. She would dip her paw in blood and rest it against the door as her signature. When the group was disbanded by the police they had ‘freed’ every shifter who had been raised and trained at the compound. 

She, like Jack, had taken the money awarded to her compensation for her upbringing, and came to America. She hadn’t had the same issues getting in, Snow Leopards weren’t on a list of dangerous shifters that weren’t allowed to immigrate in. She had met Clint not long after and found him curious. That curiosity turned to fondness and then love. 

“I was spayed when I was twelve so the fact he’s a canine doesn’t matter. I can’t have cubs anyway,” she said and the woman at the next table had stared in horror. Noticing it she said, “I was under anesthesia. It didn’t hurt.” 

“My master said intact dogs are more aggressive.” 

“Perhaps the Red Room should have taken that into account.” 

Brock tried to maintain a normal conversation with his friends but, all things considered, it was impossible. Bucky kept checking his watch, waiting for his chance to escape. Brock wished he could but he felt obligated to stay with Jack. So when Steve and Bucky made a lame excuse of having a package on the doorstep they were afraid would be stolen, Brock was stuck staring at Clint with that weird smile usually reserved for strangers in grocery stores. They got two more beers while Natasha and Jack rehashed their first kill. 

“So you and her huh,” Brock broke the silence. 

“Yeah. She’s not… Well, she’s kinda,” he lowered his voice. “Crazy, but not Jack crazy.” 

Brock glanced at two. Jack had pulled his shirt up to show the scar he had gotten from the teeth of a particular juiced up Dobermann. “They lived in a different world.” Brock said. “What if I can’t ground him?” 

“Natasha figured it out herself mostly. She says some… Well, she can be rude. Sorry for the ‘halfbreed’ comment. She… Well, she’s still got a lot to learn. It’s not something that can be taught in a few weeks. It’ll take years.” 

If Brock had known that Natasha was real he would have conferred with Clint from the beginning. But late advice was better than none. Clint gave him pointers on how to run through social simulations without any pitfall (“Go to one of those little convenience stores and have him buy something and make small talk. If it goes wrong it’s easy to avoid them.”). It felt nice to have someone he could run things by, to have someone who knew what it was like to try and fix someone who couldn’t even understand that they were broken. 

It was pushing one when Clint and Brock tried to urge them to say goodnight, tuckered out from a long day. The two agreed to meet again soon so they could hash out their kill counts. Brock hoped that meeting someone like her wasn’t going to set Jack back. He kept his eyes on the horizon however, to a time when Jack didn’t feel the need to let people know he was capable of killing them in lieu of a hello. It sounded like a small goal but for Jack, it would be a victory of epic proportions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock takes Jack on normal outings.

Jack’s ears were cropped when he was still under the tutelage of Thorne. It was a painful procedure and he was kept on a short chain while the vet worked. He had wanted to rip her hands off but he was told to stay still. His muscles still withered beneath his skin, exposing how difficult it was to endure the procedure. He was still being taught the trick of forgetting pain, to use it as fuel rather than a hindrance. How he should actively seek it when fighting so he could deliver it tenfold. 

Thorne told him he had a potential bite force of 540 PSI and that he would top it or else. He never elaborated on the punishment for failing the milestones in his training but he didn’t need to. Jack recognized him as his authority. 

The bandaging was only needed for a day and a half and when Jack caught sight of himself in the water bowl he understood the importance behind the painful procedure. He looked dangerous, even in his late puppyhood he looked the part of a Killer. Jack decided it had a dignified look to it, a sort of sleekness that his owner found appealing as well. 

Thorne added a new twist to the walls he was scaling, hanging a rope at the top he was to seize and hang onto until Thorne told him to release. It took a few tries, a few blows, but Jack learned to hang on through the stretch and strain his neck, paws scrabbling at the wall to try and relieve it. But the pain was good, it meant he was doing what he was meant to and it strengthened the cords of muscle in his neck. 

The chain came after Thorne’s death (which he was punished for so severely he spent four days laying in his kennel certain he was on the brink of death). He hated it at first, previously allowed to wander the side yard completely. But his master's faith in him has been damaged beyond repair and he no longer allowed him to roam free now he was deemed a danger to his men. His thick leather collar was replaced by a chunky choke collar meant for dogs his size and he felt his punishment would never end. 

For days he wandered circles, lonely and depressed. Jack had hated Thorne but he loved him too. The shock of his first kill doubled up with his own regrets. It had been an instinctive move, no premeditation involved. They were instincts that Thorne has unlocked and was Jack really responsible? Jack made peace with it during his strolls in a tight circle. He tried to pull the metal stake from the ground and succeeded only in choking himself. 

So he sulked around, laying in wait of something. And something came: he was called to his master’s side.

The first time guarding his master there was no other shifter, just a very nervous man who kept looking at him. Jack had been told to stand square, to keep his eyes keyed on the target’s throat. A clean kill was easy to clean up and Jack’s purpose was not to make a mess. At one point he took a step towards his master and despite Thorne’s belief that he shouldn’t make a sound or move a muscle until ordered, he couldn’t help himself. 

He flattened out his cropped ears and bore his teeth.

The man took two steps backwards. When he left his master looked down at him. “Good boy,” he said and that thrilled him to the bone. His master looked at the man with a leash, there bring him back to his kennel and said, “put him on a five foot chain.”

The chain was lengthened as Jack’s reward though it topped off at eight feet. That was okay, Jack appreciated every foot his master gave him. Sometimes people focused their attention on Jack, typically when his master and guest were dining together. 

“What a dog. Shifter, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you €17,000.”

“He’s not for sale.” His master touched the top of his head, a tender touch and Jack loved every second. He couldn’t remember the last time he was touched without the touch being painful. It became his goal, the thing he sought more than anything else. 

His first kill was easy, a nervous, twitchy man who put Jack on edge immediately. He kept looking at Jack. He had noticed the gun on his hip and the second his hand jerked towards it Jack launched his body forward. All those years of rigorous painful training came in hand, his teeth crunched through the man’s trachea, sharp teeth flaying at flesh as he drew back. The man sputtered, gun forgotten as he hit the ground, holding onto his mangled throat, drowning on blood as he stared up at Jack and his bloodied chops. 

“Good boy,” his master said, running his hand tenderly over his head. 

** ** ** **

Jack brought his money in a duffle bag that made the armed guard stop them. “It’s my money,” Jack almost bristled, eyes on the gun strapped to the man’s waist. 

After leafing through the stack of bills he stepped back to allow them in. They were taken to a private office area to set up the account. Setting up the account was fairly simple and Jack was able to give the information without mentioning how he was far superior to the shifter across the desk. “And you’ll be on the account as well?” 

“Oh,” Brock said startled. “No.” 

“My Brock has his own account.” Jack said and Brock’s eyes widened. 

His? He didn’t belong to anyone and it was probably a bad sign that Jack thought it was okay. The teller nodded in understanding and started to rapidly type, asking for Jack’s name and his date of birth. He faltered on that for a moment. Brock felt a pang of pity for Jack. He’d grown up without even knowing his birthday. It was a miracle that he’d taught himself how to read. He remembered and rattled it off. Brock learned it was in February. He filed the information away or later. Chances were he hadn’t had a birthday cake before. When the account was made and a debit card printing in the other room and the money disappeared behind the counter, Jack turned to Brock. 

“Now I use my card instead of cash?” 

“Exactly.” 

“And they won’t steal it?” 

“Nope. It’ll be locked up safely.” 

Jack nodded his head. “Do you want to eat after? I can use my debit card.” 

Brock laughed and checked the time. “Sure. Besides if you’re buying who am I to refuse.” 

Jack seemed pleased and the woman returned with the card. “To set up the pin all you need to do is use the ATM upfront. You’ll use the four of your social security number and then change it to whatever you want.” 

Jack took the card and stood up, heading to the door. She seemed startled at the departure so Brock offered an apologetic smile. “Thank you for all your help.” 

“It was my pleasure.” she smiled but still was looking oddly at Jack who was standing outside the glass wall staring at Brock. 

He exited and Jack started towards the exit, eyes still on the gun. Brock put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got your back,” he said quietly and Brock calmed a bit. 

Once they were seated with menus open Brock asked what he was feeling. 

“Steak.” 

Jack laid down the menu and Brock peeked a look around the restaurant. It was the kind of place that served subpar steak. He could tell by decor alone. “What about fried chicken?” 

“That is okay.” 

“What do you want for the side?” 

“No side. Just meat.”

“Meat?” 

“Keeps me strong,” he explained. “Only meat.” 

“There’s more to eat than just meat, Jack. Why don’t you try something new?” 

Jack shrugged. “Okay.” 

“Chicken alfredo,”Brock said. “Meat and pasta.” 

A waitress finally found the way to them and took their orders. “We talk about me a lot but not about you,” Jack says suddenly. 

“Oh.” Brock sat back. “There’s not much to know about me.” 

“You didn’t have a lot of friends in school.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement and it stung a bit. 

“People didn’t trust hybrids back then. They still don’t.” 

“So, what did you do about it?” 

“I kept to myself.” Brock was incredibly uncomfortable reliving his childhood. 

“You fought,” Jack pointed out. “How was that?” 

“It was fighting.” 

“You like fighting.” 

Brock snuck around but it was virtually deserted. “No, that kind of fighting. It’s endless. Someone has it out for me, I’d fight, they’d back down. And then another would come by.” 

“It taught you well,” Jack pointed out. 

Brock hummed and well, Jack wasn't wrong. “I suppose it did.” 

“What was your best one?” 

The question took Brock off guard. “My best one?”

“Best fight when you were a kid,” Jack clarified.

** ** ** **

Brock’s paws scrabbled for purchase on the ice slickened asphalt. There was never any reprieve. If he wasn’t being insulted by his father, he was being attacked by his peers. It wasn’t fair, Brock thought as he panted. The one that led the other four was a hateful Dalmatian Labrador hybrid named Thomas. He’d had it out for him since they were just puppies in kindergarten and now, in middle school, what was once chasing around and nipping at hock had turned into much bolder attacks that his followers gleefully joined in on. It was a snow day and also his father’s day off so he wanted to blow off some energy. He was an idiot. 

It wasn’t fair, Brock thought again, he’d never done anything to hurt them or anyone else. His paw slipped out from him as he rounded a corner and hit the ground hard, losing precious distance between him and his pursuers. It took a second to get back to his feet, nails digging into the black ice as he propelled himself forwards. He knew when he got home his father would rant and rave but it beat the teeth tearing into him. His followers were barking in excitement. Brock could fight off one, maybe two, but not four. And that’s why Thomas had recruited more shifters into his makeshift gang, intent on nothing but torturing Brock and it wasn’t fair. 

He wasn’t fast enough, so he abandoned his chase, pivoting around and racing toward Thomas who skidded to a stop. Brock’s teeth were as merciless as Thomas’ pursuit had been, and it was only fair. His back-up crept backwards and they fought, fang against fang. Brock had a thick double coat, and the fact Thomas was larger gave Brock the edge of speed and evasion. It was instinctive, Brock’s movements fluid as if he’d done so a million times. It was the first real fight, not a bullying romp where the purpose was to knock him over. Their puppyhood was behind them, their baby teeth fallen out. This was a brawl that would set the tone for the rest of their lives. Thomas wasn’t doing well at all and Brock was doing too well.

He had a bit of control, enough to clamp down on the urge to take his throat between his teeth and crunch down. Thomas tried to get away but the black ice that Brock had been battling him was apologizing by allowing Brock to punish his biggest bully. It took the Collie to break them apart. She took a nasty bite to her shoulder and she yelped out loudly. Brock’s muzzle was soaked in Thomas’ blood. The bully fled, followed by the rest of his pack. Brock stood there, panting, mind reeling at what had happened. He knew his father would hear about that, he’d call him a savage halfbreed and lock him in his room. But, Brock decided, it was well worth it. He wasn’t going to sit back passively anymore, not when this fire lived inside him. 

** ** ** **

“It was my first real fight.” 

“And it felt good.” 

“Yes, it did. It was the first time I took control. That I realized that I’m not a victim, I’m a threat.” 

Jack grinned, all teeth. “It’s a good feeling isn’t it?” 

“It’s why I go to the Pits. I don’t know if it’s good or bad.” 

“It’s written into our DNA. It’s nature.”

“It’s something.” 

Their dishes came and Jack pulled the plate close to him, arm blocking Brock from it. “I’m not going to take your food Jack.” 

He looked confused and then what he’d done seemed to dawn on him and slowly pulled back. “I know you won’t but…” 

“No one steals your food, Jack. That’s nothing you need worry about anymore, okay? You don’t have to eat quickly, you can enjoy your food.” Brock felt a bit bad having to explain that. 

“Oh.” Jack looked around the restaurant. “You’re sure?” 

“Positive.” 

Jack nodded his head and he proceeded to pick up his fork. He still ate quickly but maybe a bit slower than he had. Brock didn’t rush himself though, he ate at a steady pace. Leading by example and all that shit.

“Did you like it?” Brock asked between bites.

“I like steak better but it wasn’t bad.”

“Steak is superior to all,” Brock agreed. 

** ** ** ** 

Jack agreed readily to dinner with Clint and Natasha. Brock had a feeling he could care less about Clint being there but Natasha and Jack had clicked in the bar. Brock prepared himself for a very rough and disturbing conversation but Brock knew it was hard for Jack in this new world with so many complicated rules. He deserved the time off to brag about all the terrifying things he’d done. Natasha clearly enjoyed it as well. 

They arrived at their apartment, wine in hand. Jack liked it and Brock loved it so he thought it was a good drink choice, even if it was just for them. Clint answered the door with a smile. “Hey guys, c’mon in.” 

Brock led the way past Clint. Natasha was in the living room, flicking through TV stations. “Hi,” she said without looking from the screen. 

“Hi.” 

There was an eagerness in Jack’s voice that made Brock’s stomach clench in annoyance. He wasn’t sure what bothered him about his excitement to see Natasha but it did. He chalked it off to some territorial bullshit he got from his heritage. Clint was at the stove, boiling spaghetti and turning meatballs over in the skillet. Brock lended a hand as Natasha asked about his training growing up. 

“Here we go,” Clint said with a fond but exasperated smile. “She hasn’t stopped talking about Jack. I don’t know if I should be worried or not.” 

“I doubt it. I think Jack just likes to live in the past when things get too overwhelming here in the real word.” 

Brock rotated the meatballs so they seared evenly. The smell of garlic bread wafted from the oven. 

“I killed him,” Jack said, sounding a bit dismayed by that. “I… It was his fault really. When a shifter has it’s jaw on your throat you never pull away, you bite their face, go for the eyes. He didn’t do that. It’s his fault.” 

Brock and Clint exchanged eye contact. It was nice to be with someone who understood though. Even if they were both in disbelief about all the hell they’d been though. Not to mention how unfazed they were by it. 

“My trainer was killed. I was thirteen.” Natasha replied, as if discussing the weather. “I was shot once but I killed him.” 

Natasha got up and pulled her shirt up and her jeans down a bit to show the bullet wound on her hip. 

“I was shot at once, the bullet grazed my face,” Jack tapped the scar. 

“They’re like war buddies comparing scars,” Clint commented. 

“Maybe they are.” 

Natasha was walking through the time she eviscerated a target when dinner was ready. Even for Brock it was hard to eat with the thought of someone’s guts spilling out lingered in his mind. Natasha ate quickly, just like Jack. Clint didn’t intervene so Brock didn’t either. Brock reminded himself that there was no easy fix for a lifestyle like theirs. That this was going to be a long process. Jack took a bite of garlic bread and launched into a discussion about the best way to disarm someone. Natasha said she had most of her luck when clawing the groin. Clint and Brock both flinched but Jack looked delighted. He confirmed he had tried biting there but found breaking the hand between his teeth worked best for him.

“No claws,” he explained. “Usually they wear thick clothes, it’s hard to get my teeth through fast enough.”

They discussed their masters then, speaking highly of them despite all the things they were forced to do. But it was all in the name of loyalty. They had been born into it, years of servitude passed down to them. It was sad, it was really fucking sad, but Brock was starting to understand why he treated his master like a god. Because to him, he was. He commanded his entire world. He giveth, he taketh away. He was the Word. He was who he answered. He imagined that was the same with Natasha even though the only details he knew was how proud she was over her kill count. (“Thirty-eight” she said. Jack grinned and said, “Forty-one”). 

Natasha and Jack went back to the living room leaving Brock and Clint cleaning up but it provided them time to talk. “Have you been to his apartment?” 

Brock was taken off guard by the question. “Er, no. Should I?” 

“When I went over to Nat’s the first time she had no furniture and a sleeping bag on the floor. She’d never owned anything before she had no idea she could buy furniture and such. She was so used to the life she’d lived that she never even thought about it.” 

That sounded...exactly like something Jack would do. Brock’s heart felt heavy. It often did when Jack recounted the old days or said something so wildly off base that it hit Brock all over again how much the man had suffered. “I will,” Brock assured him. “Maybe tonight.” 

Clint nodded his head. “What have you done so far?” 

“Well, I tried to teach him that he doesn’t need to guard his food but that’ll be a work in progress.” 

“Most things are,” Clint agreed. “It’s a long road but, if you love them, it’s worth it.” 

Love? Brock was startled by the word. It seemed so intimate, so private. “Yeah,” Brock said. “Um, I showed him how to set up a bank account. He’s got a card now.” 

“That’s good. Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you show him around the city.” 

Brock’s brows knitted together. “Like a tourist?” 

“Well, he is new to the city. He deserves a tour, I’d say.” 

Brock sighed in defeat. It wasn’t a bad idea, Brock just hated sightseeing. It’s why he hadn’t left the city he was born in and why he had no real desire to leave it. But he could put his personal opinion to the side. For Jack. 

“After I saw Natasha’s apartment I took her to the grocery store. You might want to as well. All she had was shelf stable milk, a million bottles of water that she kept in the fridge and a raw chicken she’d been chewing on.” 

Brock could only imagine the horror that would lay within Jack’s fridge but if he didn’t help him, who would? It wasn’t like there was anyone crazy enough to befriend someone who prided himself on his kill count. Jack was his responsibility now, for better or worse and Brock was going to follow through. 

“The laundry mat isn’t a bad idea either. Nat was washing her clothes in the sink with Windex the last tenants left.” 

The night wound down and even though Jack and Nat were still talking (now sharing the hardest fights they’ve ever been in) Brock and Clint had to work in the morning and Brock still had to swing by Jack’s apartment. Jack and Natasha exchanged phone numbers and Brock wasn’t certain if he should encourage or discourage the action. Clint didn’t seem too worried so he trusted him enough to keep his mouth shut. 

“How about we stop out at your plac first?” 

“My apartment? Why?” 

“Well you’ve seen my place, it’s only fair for me to see yours.” 

Jack considered a moment and then nodded. “I don’t have beer,” he warned. 

“I think I’ll survive but thanks for the consideration.” 

The cab ride was full of Jack filling him in on the incredible things Natasha had done and Brock tried his best to ignore the cabbie looking at them through the rearview mirror. Jack was enthusiastic though and it was great to see him showing emotion more. They stopped at a quiet residential block, not as run down as he expected. Of course, Jack had money. He could afford to live in an area with wealthy wild shifters who were boxed out from normal society. A few kids were playing on the stoop, clearly well cared for as opposed to the ones Brock saw on his block with ratty clothes. It was strange and nice all at once. He felt a brief pang of jealousy. He’d give anything to live in an area like this growing up. Even though his father wasn’t wild he didn’t make much money cleaning offices and the cheapest living were buildings bordering ones that housed wild shifters. 

Jack punched in the passcode and the door opened. Jack held the door for Brock, surprising him. “Thank you,” he stammered. “Where’d you learn that?” 

“Clint held the door for Natasha at the bar.” 

Brock was surprised by that but the fact he was picking up on social cues was a good sign. They took the stairs despite the elevator and Brock was glad. He always felt antsy when he had too much energy and in that way he and Jack were similar. 

Brock thought that all canine shifters had wild urges that, despite years of breeding and trying to cover up their wild roots, they were still there. They packed together, the way wolves would. Brock couldn’t be the only one who the urge crept on without reason to run, to break free and run and run and run until he couldn’t anymore. To join his truly wild brothers. Or maybe he was thinking too deeply into things. 

Jack lived in 31C and he fished a single silver key from his pocket. Brock made a mental note to get a key ring so he wouldn’t lose it. The door fell open and Brock peeked in. It was hot, clearly he hadn’t invested in an AC or, assuming they had central air, hadn’t figured out how to turn it on. The light flicked on and Brock’s stomach dropped. There was a makeshift kennel made from wood pallets. 

“Jack…” 

“I have water and sangrita,” he said. 

“Jack you sleep in that?” 

“Of course.” Jack looked confused. “Dogs don’t belong in beds.” 

“You’re not a dog, Jack.” Brock was suddenly furious. “You’re not a fucking dog. You need a bed.” 

It was a foolish move because Jack met his anger and then topped it. “It’s my kennel. It’s where I sleep. It’s where you should sleep because you’re a dog too.” 

Brock took a deep breath, fighting down his outrage. He was supposed to be helping, not hurting. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” 

Jack was suddenly calm. He shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not upset.” 

“You seemed upset.” 

“I was taught to always be the angriest person in the room. To assert my presence and tell them that I could attack at any moment.” 

“Oh.” Brock said. 

He was really fucking good at it. “How do you even fit in that?” Brock asked. 

“I sleep shifted.” Jack walked towards the kitchen. “Do you want water or sangrita?” 

“Water.” 

There’s a case sitting on the counter with a line of sangria bottles. Jack wasn’t kidding when he said he liked it. He could only hope he was drinking in moderation. 

“Don’t you get hot?” 

“I’m used to the heat. My coat isn’t thick enough for winters here but the apartment provides shelter. I miss being outside,” Jack said suddenly looking around the apartment, downtrodden. “I don’t like walking on two legs so much.” 

Brock rested a hand on his arm. “It’ll get better.” 

“It won’t. It’s how I’m meant to be. I know it’s different for… For shifters who walked on two legs first. I’m not like them. I’m not like you.” 

“Sometimes I get sick of being on two legs too, Jack. It’s not just you. I think most shifters feel exactly the same. They just don’t say it.” 

“I’m always sick of it.” Jack offered the bottle he’d grabbed earlier. 

Brock cracked the top and tried not to wince at the warm water. “You know, you can put your drinks in the fridge.” 

“I don’t like cold drinks much,” Jack said. “The water in my bowl wasn’t cold.” 

Brock nodded his head in understanding. 

They had greyhound races with shifters and there would be insulated bowls for them afterwards to cool them down before they went back to the locker rooms to shift back. They intentionally kept the water cool but Jack’s ‘master’ didn’t seem like the type to give him anything remotely human. There was nowhere to sit down, the makeshift kennel the only furniture. The apartment was nice, no cracks in the plaster, the fresh paint smell hung in the air. Brock polished off his water and went onto the next matter of business. 

“Do you have enough food?” 

“You want me to give you my food?” Jack’s eyes hardened a bit and Brock held his hands up in surrender. 

“No, no. I just… I was going to go grocery shopping on Saturday. I thought I’d see if you need to come along.” 

Jack remained just as tense and Brock racked his mind for the best way to reassure him. “I have plenty of my own food Jack. Remember? You saw it in my fridge and on my counters.” 

The hard glint in his eyes faded but his body was still tense.

“Jack, I have your back. I wouldn’t take anything from you. Ever.” 

Jack took a deep breath and shoulders dropped. “Stand over there,” he said, warningly before he opened the fridge. 

There were three butcher paper wrapped parcels that Brock didn’t doubt all contained steak. “I go every other day,” he said and shut the door quickly, moving to stand in front of it. 

“You can’t survive off of meat, Jack. You need vegetables. You need carbs.” 

“I’ve lived this long without them.” 

“Because all that stuff was added to the kibble, Jack. Your human body can’t sustain on protein alone.” 

Jack looked warily at him. “A grocery store?” 

“Yes, a building full of food that you can buy.” 

“I like the meat I get down the street.” 

“You don’t have to buy meat there. You can get vegetables, basic staples, things to cook with. You are cooking the steak right?” 

“I like it better raw.” 

Of course he did. “Alright, Saturday we’ll go to Aldi and then we’ll come back and we’ll cook together. Okay? We’ll cook food for you and for me.” 

Jack looked warily at him. “You won’t take mine?” he verified. 

“No, I’ll have my own food. Like when we go to restaurants.” 

Jack nodded after a moment. “Okay.” 

Brock looked sadly at the kennel but he didn’t want to push the issues, especially after things had gone earlier. “Alright, I’m going to head home.” 

Jack nodded his head and opened the door for him. Brock wasn’t sure why it felt good, but it did.

** ** ** ** 

Brock had his fair share of concerns bringing Jack into a grocery store. He was food aggressive as was and he didn’t need him lashing at some old lady who accidentally grabbed what he was looking at. So Brock instructed him to keep his hand on the cart. Jack didn’t inquire why, he just obeyed. Brock would feel guilty about it later but for now he was thinking about the safety of Jack and everyone else in the store. Brock tried to shop for Jack using his palate. His eyes were wide as he looked around at the sheer amount of food, at the produce piled up high, vegetables being misted by the sprinklers. 

“Who owns all this?” Jack asked in a hushed voice. 

“Uh, I guess whoever owns the Aldi line. It’s for anyone to buy.” 

“I can buy all of it?” Jack looked delighted and Brock quickly objected.

“No, no. That’s not how it works. You see something you want, you put in the cart.” 

“At the butcher I just ask and Juan gives it to me.” 

“It’s different from a butcher shop. C’mon. Have you ever had sweet potatoes?” 

“I like sweet things,” Jack said. “Do we buy all of them?” 

“No, you only buy but you would eat in a week or two. You leave some for everyone else. Take only what you need.” 

Pained, Jack nodded. Brock decided they’d make burgers, something that easy for Jack to see the portions clearly. Sweet potato fries would be a good way to get veggies into the meal. Brock wasn’t a vegetable fan but it was a must. He’d work it into Jack’s diet. He dropped a few into the cart and Jack stared down at them as thought they’d vanish if he took his eyes off them. A lady bumped his cart as Brock was looking at dried fruit for Jack. Something sweet and healthy. Jack growled and the woman, a human, looked startled.

“I’m sorry,” Brock said immediately, desperately hoping that he could salvage the situation. “He… He’s…” 

Brock couldn’t think of an excuse but the woman seemed to come to her own conclusion because she smiled at the bristling shifter and carried on. 

“She wasn’t afraid,” Jack said, offended.

“No, and she shouldn’t. Another thing about society: you’re nice to people. It was an accident, Jack.” 

“She could have taken our potatoes Brock.” 

“When it’s your cart, no one is going to touch it.” Brock assured him. “Look, meat.” 

Jack picked up the ground beef and sniffed at it before setting it in the cart with the others. He glared at the rest of the section before he sniffed again and started to wander away. Brock trailed along. 

“Jack, hand on the cart.” he said, trying not to draw too much attention. 

He maneuvered around far too many carts and Jack snatched something and hustled back to the cart. He set it down and then sighed in relief. Brock’s pulse was still bounding as he started down at the salmon. 

“I was given fish once as a reward,” Jack explained. “Have you tried it?” 

Brock took a deep breath to settle his nerves. “Hand on the cart, Jack.” 

Jack obeyed. After Brock was steady enough not to snap at him for not listening, he said, “I’ve tried fish before, yes. It’s good.” 

Jack hummed, pleased. His eyes were already scoping the store. He didn’t take his hand off the cart but he did pull it after him. Brock didn’t mind it, although being pulled along wasn’t very fun. Jack put a bag of potato chips (“I saw one of my master’s men eating this. He tossed me one once.”), a jar of jam because Brock said it was sweet, and a baguette because Jack thought it smelled good. Brock grabbed buns for their burgers and some cheese. The only thing that bothered Brock about Aldi was that what they stock changed so much. But at their prices he couldn’t complain. 

Jack demanded to pay, clearly fond of putting the card into the machine. They took their cart to the bagging counter and then they were waiting for a cab. “I like grocery shopping,” Jack announced. “You can get as much food as you want.” 

“That’s right.” 

“We can again?” 

“Whenever you want.” 

“And you’ll come too?” Jack asked. 

“Uh, sure, if you want me too. Probably would be cheaper cab wise. We can split the cost.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

“You don’t get to pay for everything, Jack. It’s not fair.” 

“I have a lot of money and you don’t,” Jack said bluntly. “You can use your money for other things. I can pay for your cab.” 

Brock opened his mouth to argue but Jack wasn’t exactly wrong. It still felt wrong, like he was taking advantage. “We’ll alternate.” Brock said. “One week you pay, the next one I pay.” 

“I guess so.” 

Their next stop was Walmart where Jack once more was instructed to keep his hand on the cart as they went immediately to the cook-ware aisle. “You need pots and pans and dishes,” Brock explained as he put a skillet and a pot in.

He decided to go simple, Jack was going to be cooking any extravagant meals. Brock selected a skillet, a standard sized baking sheet, a roasting pan, a cutting board, and then cooking utensils: tongs, a spatula (both standard and rubber ones, a slotted spoon, and a can opener for the tuna fish he was thrilled to add to the cart). They went to the dish aisle and Brock added two bowls, two plates, a mixing bowl, two glasses and silverware (three forks, spoons, and butter knives). Brock wasn’t happy to select the knife pack, worried about Jack using it as a weapon before remembering that Jack would never need to: he was a weapon within himself as he was so proud to share with anyone and everyone. Besides, Brock would need the knife to make their dinner. 

Brock sped through the rest of his mental list, dish soap, dish rack and dish towels. Then Brock asked if Jack had a towel and he said he air dried. He asked if he had toiletries, although he seemed to be clean. Jack confirmed he had three bars of soap, four rolls of toilet paper and a toothbrush. Brock went down the toiletries aisle and Brock tossed in a bottle of three-in-one because it seemed like the easiest for Jack to adapt to. He selected a gray towel for him and then went to the food aisle to get olive oil, and spices.

Jack didn’t seem to mind the extended shopping as Brock thought about all the little things he’d forgotten. Paper towels, flour, baking powder, sliced bread, peanut butter to go with his jelly, a blanket for when it got cold even though it was only mid-July. And a pillow because Jack deserved that at a least. They left with far too many bags but thankfully the two of them were strong enough to handle one trip. 

They stopped at Brock’s apartment first so he could put away his groceries, leaving the meter running, before they went to Jack’s. The makeshift kennel still left a bad taste in his mouth as he set the pillow inside of it, but he tried to ignore it by helping Jack put away his things. He was still guarded and didn’t like Brock touching the food for too long but he didn’t growl or act aggressive. It was more like he was irritated. Once everything was put away it was pushing five which was early but still an acceptable time to start cooking. 

“First we want to cut fries.” Brock said. He thought that talking him through it and letting him hand him the food would keep him calm. 

Jack assessed the four sitting on the counter and then passed two to Brock. He thought they could make due with one but extra food never hurt. 

“You always want to wash your produce, potatoes especially. They come from the ground so they have dirt on them.”

Jack nodded, eyes glued on the potatoes sitting under the tap that Brock was rubbing to get the dirt from every nook and cranny. He set the clean on the cutting board, well within sight, and started on the second. 

“Okay, now we cut it.” Brock said, waiting for a nod before he started. “I’m making fries. Have you ever had one?” 

“It came with my steak once. They were good.” 

Brock perked up. “Now you’ll know how to make them at home.” 

Jack hinted at a smile and Brock took it as a win. He put the chopped up fries into the mixing bowl and gave them a cold water bath while he moved onto the bacon. “I’m cutting the fat from them to give the burgers more flavor. You can fry up the meaty part with eggs in the morning if you want.” 

“I like my meat raw.” 

It wasn’t like it would hurt him. Shifters were resistant to most things, food poisoning part of that. As far as Brock knew. He’d eaten his share of too old Chinese food and it hadn’t hurt him any. Jack didn’t seem to leave meat lying out long either. Plus, people ate bacon just over raw all the time and if humans could do it, so could Jack. Brock put the meat of the bacon into a plastic baggy, passing it to Jack to put away. He knew that Jack wouldn’t want him anywhere near his fridge. He chopped up onions and put them in one of the small bowls because the big one was in use. In hindsight he should have thought about it but he was too distracted trying to remember the basics of living. 

When the fries were done with their cold bath he patted them dry, tossed them in corn starch, pepper and smoked paprika he had thankfully remembered to grab. He laid them in a single layer, careful not to overcrowd them. Brock wanted to show that home cooking was good and that other things could taste just as good as meat. Brock wouldn’t call himself a cook but he knew his way around the basics. 

Brock combined the meat and bacon fat, onions and a splash of worchestire sauce. He put plastic wrap on top of it and asked Jack to put it in the fridge. They waited on the fries, Jack talking about the scraps of different food he’d tried and how sometimes his master would let him have the leftovers on his plate after a dinner he was standing guard at. He said it with pride and Brock’s heart broke even more. Brock wasn’t certain when it would stop bothering him, when he could hear it and it would no longer affect him. Brock was beginning to think never.

“You need to get furniture in here.” Brock said during a lull in conversation.

They both had a glass of sangria which wasn’t something Brock would usually drink but sometimes, when talking to Jack, it was necessary to have something to take the edge off his anger towards his previous master. He was glad he was dead but sometimes he wished he wasn’t so he could have been the one to tear out his throat. But Jack would hate him for it and that was the last thing Brock would ever want. After Brock flipped the fries, he got out the skillet and added oil and Jack retrieved the bowl from the fridge. Jack watched as Brock began to form wide thin burgers. He cooked the first two, melted cheese on top and set them aside before cooking the other two. He stuck the buns in the broiler and when they were done, he picked up the lettuce leaves he’d washed earlier and onion slices he’d cut after dice up some for the burgers. 

He put together the burgers on plates and got out the fries and piled them on the plates. He stepped back to let Jack select his plate and once he did they stood at the counter and while Jack sniffed at it. “You pick it up and eat it,” Brock said.

“I know that. It just… I haven’t had this before.”

“It’s good to try something new.” 

Jack grumbled a bit and picked it up, sniffed at it, and then took a huge bite despite his apprehension. The food was gone as fast as it usually was but he grabbed more fries so that Brock took it that he liked it. Brock did up the dishes and Jack hovered over his shoulder watching. After the dishes were dried and put away Brock checked the time. 

“I work in the morning, I have to head home.” 

Jack was still looking at the fridge. “Okay.” 

“ I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

Brock went to the door and Jack spoke again. “Thank you for showing me how to get a lot of food.” 

Brock smiled. “You’re welcome.” 

** ** ** ** 

“Huh,” Jack said looking up at the Washington Monument.

“That’s all you have to say?” 

“It’s just a piece of stone.” 

“It’s supposed to symbolize respect for our Founding Father.” 

“Maybe it’s an American thing,” Jack said with a shrug. “Where to next?”

Jack was equally bored by Lincoln Memorial and as they turned to leave a tourist ran over. “Can you or your boyfriend take a photo of us?” 

A man and a little girl waved gleefully. This was why Brock hated tourists; they treated people as their personal photographers. But Brock didn’t have time to be annoyed, his brain had started skipping when she called Jack his boyfriend. He accepted the camera, too numb to refuse and he took the photo. The woman hustled back and thanked him before rejoining her family. They carried on and Brock stood in place. Boyfriend? 

“What’s a boyfriend?” Jack asked. 

He knew a million different ways to kill and he had no idea what a boyfriend was. Brock laughed, jittery and too high pitched. 

“What’s a boyfriend, Brock?” Jack asked again. 

“It’s when two men love each other. A lot. More than friends.” 

Jack said, “Okay. Where are we going now?” 

Brock tried to shake off the moment as they went to the Tomb of the Unknown (“What the big deal? No one knows who’s inside.”). He was unimpressed at the State Capitol and White House (“You can’t go in, why would anyone care?”). He complained that the National Mall was pointless. The only thing he liked was a taco truck and all the walking. While Jack was inhaling his third taco Brock texted Clint. 

Brock: Thanks for the genius suggestion. He’s not interested in anything.

Clint: Trial and error my friend. Trial and error. 

When Jack was finished they took a walk around Rocky Creek Park. There were people walking their dogs and it always unnerved him a bit. Event though he knew they were pets, it was hard to differentiate between shifters and animals. Jack was unbothered, as expected, and the trip had been, if nothing else, a good day of exercise. Brock knew he’d sleep well tonight. 

“So that was a bust,” he said to Jack in the cab.

“It was boring.” 

“I know.” 

“I liked the park.” Jack said. “And the tacos.” 

“The tacos were good,” Brock agreed. 

Brock didn’t count it as a failure, after all, Jack didn’t hate the outing completely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock's nightlife lapses into his everyday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kali for reading through this and for being awesome in general.

As it turned out Jack had been washing his clothes in the sink with a bar of soap. Brock bought him a duffle bag to put his clothes into and took him along to the laundromat to wash them properly. Brock blames himself, he should have thought about that, especially after Clint’s suggestion. But then he reminded himself, better late than never.

“Where do I stick my card in?” Jack asked, frustrated. 

“You swipe.” 

“But I have a chip.” 

“I know. They don’t have a chip reader so you swipe it.” 

Jack sighed and swiped the card. The washer started going and while Brock gestured to the chairs in the waiting area, empty at that time of night, Jack wouldn’t budge. He stood guard over his clothes which were a bit limited as well. Four shirts, two black, one navy, and one gray and three pairs of jeans. They were his and he would protect them. So Brock leaned against the washer his own clothes were in and waited with him. They repeated it for the dryer, a kid who came in gave them a strange look. Brock didn’t blame him. Jack standing, shoulders squared, staring at his laundry going round and round. 

When it finally buzzed Jack stuffed the clothes in the bag quickly and then, with it slung over his shoulder he looked calm. “No one’s going to steal your clothes,” Brock reminded him in the cab. 

“They won’t because I’m protecting it.” Jack retorted. 

Brock had learned to pick his battles with Jack so he let this one go because there was always the chance that someone could. Jack got out at Brock’s stop to his surprise but he didn’t object. They watched TV and Brock presented the bottle of sangria he’d bought Yellow Tail, just as Jack had. Jack had smiled and Brock realised what a nice smile he had. It was a pity that he preferred to growl but, with time, hopefully Jack would recognize that not everything in the world was out to get him and he’d smile everyday. For now he was okay with the smile here and there. Clearly his purchase had been a good one. It wasn’t even expensive which was even better. 

Jack drank his sangria and Brock drank his beer while they caught the end of Riddick before Brock told Jack he had to shower and get to bed. “I’ll stand guard,” Jack said immediately. “While you’re in the shower.” 

Brock was so used to his oddities he just shrugged and said it was fine. He grabbed a tee and sweats to change into and closed the door behind him. He had always harbored a few fears when showering. First and foremost the grudge hand on the back of his head. The other was opening his eyes after washing his face to see a demon or some shit front of him. Those fears were abated by knowing Jack was in the next room. He wasn’t sure why. 

Jack was still there when Brock came out. He nodded at him once and promptly left. Brock shrugged and went to his room. 

** ** ** **

The German Shepherd rolled away from Jack who bristled and roared fighting against the chain. The shifter belonged to one of his master’s men and she had knowingly invaded Jack’s land so Jack lunged and taught her a lesson, swift and silent. Only when she was out of reach did he protest with great snarling roars. The man fell on his knees in front of the German Shepherd who limped to him, crying out in pain. Tuffs of her fur covered the ground, like a thin layer of snow. The sound of the tussle had other men that had been stationed around the property come rushing over, guns at the ready. 

“That fucker,” the guy said, furious. “Oughta shoot ‘im where he stands.” 

“You do that Miguel, we gotta shoot you. She shoulda known better to get within reach.” 

“Didn’t snarl, didn’t make no noise, just grabbed her, just like that.” 

He fussed over her wound. She was bleeding heavily, slashed damn near to the bone, ear torn to bits and a wound near her eyes had just barely missed blinding her in one. She wouldn’t quiet her cries, determined to let everyone on the property know she was hurt. Jack laid down, body keyed up. Bloodlust was blinding and he ached to bury his teeth in her again. 

“Quiet,” the man snapped to her and quieted herself. “I’m gonna have to get the vet here.” 

“I’ll cover this area while you go ask. My shifter knows better than to get near him. Fuckin’ near rabid, that one. Steer clear. He don’t care what you are, shifter, human, it’s all free game to him.” 

Jack muscles were still tense as she limped away. Once she was out of sight he got up and went into his kennel, curling up to nap.

** ** ** **

“Are we going tomorrow?” 

Brock sighed. “Hello to you too, Jack.” 

Jack huffed in frustration. “Hello, are we going tomorrow?” 

Brock knew it was counterproductive, that he should say no and continue on healing him, continue showing him was more than what he could shift into. But… The process of doing it was frustrating and it was the only way he could work out his energy. “Of course.” 

Brock was a regular and so was Jack so they were built into the roster. If someone in the roster didn’t show they reshuffled with newbies that stood at the ready spectating and eager to get into the ring themselves. 

“Good.” 

They shared a cab, stopping a block away and walked the rest of the way. The Pits took place in the basement of a pawn shop. Brock was met by the usual two who nodded them through. Ward informed Jack he was going up against a Saint Bernard and Brock was up against a Beauceron, a breed he’d never fought against before. Brock was looking forward to the challenge and, honestly, a bit nervous as well. The Kugsha had been a hard fight, one he could have easily lost. He had a streak he wanted to continue, it was his legacy, his shining achievement. Something that, at the end of the day, he was proud as hell about it. Jack was after him tonight. And Brock shifted and hyped himself up. His muscles were bunched with tension and the aggression had cooped up, his anger about Jack’s old master gave him that heady rust of anger. 

He was ready to fight, he was ready to kill. 

When he was called he stalked into the ring because it was his, the Beauceron was an invader who needed to be chased away. But even with his ears ringing with anger he saw that he was a worthy challenger. He had a gleaming coat, lower legs and paws copper in color. He was tall, taller than Brock by about an inch, maybe more. He was confident, he held his head up high as Ward latched the door. Brock crouched, analyzing the best way to attack. They circled each other twice, each waiting for the other to move. Brock dove to the left, bounced off the ground when he landed and snapped his teeth into his side. The Beauceron snarled when Brock’s teeth dug into him. The downside of a single hair coat was how easy it was to get into muscles. And torn up muscle slowed down a shifter. But he had an unforgiving bite of his own, ripping into his shoulder. Brock had to snap at his throat to get him to unhinge his jaw. Brock quickly darted out of biting range. Tufts of fur littered the ground at the Beauceron’s paws but they were both bleeding. Brock had to think, had to lend his humanity into his natural instinct because this was a fight that couldn't be won with raw anger. They stared at each other, golden eyes and black eyes both shining with anger.

They prowled for a moment, both calculating, both scheming a quick win because a long brawl would end in a draw once time ran out. So Brock made a plan and he hoped it worked.   
He rushed the Beaucan, crouching in preparation to rear up. The Beauceron jumped first, clearly intent on pushing him off balance and getting him on his back. But Brock had planned for that. His belly was exposed, an especially vulnerable spot and ripped into it savagely. The Beauceron let out a yelp, a truly wounded yelp and hastily rolled over. Brock stepped over him and Ward called it. Brock found Jack waiting in the locker room but he wasn’t alone. A short man was waiting, face screwed up in anger. 

“What’s going on?” Brock asked, getting dressed. He spit blood into the sink. 

“What’s wrong is you didn’t win your fight last week. You hit the ground first.” 

Brock stared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? We both put in our all. In the end I was the winner. End of story.” 

“Not end of story -- it’s not just me who thinks this, you know. The great Brock Rumlow, a cheat.” 

Jack growled and Brock found it both comforting and concerning. Anger welled up inside him. “I’m not a cheater.” 

“Prove it. Next week you’ll face my fighter again. And we’ll see who’s really superior.” 

Brock wanted to laugh in his face. He had won that fight fair and square. Anyone who didn’t see it was blind. But if he hadn’t seen it as a clear win, others hadn’t just like him. He wanted to punch the wall, wanted to rip into him for doubting him. “He’ll do it,” Jack said from behind him. “But I hope he knows what he’s going up against.” 

The gambler grinned. “Oh I think he knows. See you next week Rumlow. It’ll be nice to see you knocked down a few pegs.” 

Brock had held the top spot in his weight class since he started there years ago. He’d never been second guessed, never accused of cheating. It was infuriating. It was insulting. “I could kill the Kugsha for you.” Jack offered. 

Brock could have laughed. “No, Jack. You can’t just kill someone who challenges you. Wanna grab a drink?”

“Sure.” 

They sat in the bar, Brock in his head and Jack enjoying his sangria. “I got lucky last time,” Brock admitted. “It was a risky move and it could have gone sideways fast. Real fast.” 

“So train.”

“How the hell do you train for a fight like that?” 

“I teach you.” 

“You?” 

“I would consider myself the best fighter in that entire arena. They do it for fun. I did it for a living.” Jack looked dead serious. “I’ll find a place.” 

“Do you need help -- ”

“I know how to rent out a gym, Brock. You showed me how to get a membership, I’ll just ask to rent it out at night.” 

Brock couldn’t shake his worry but he knew he couldn’t micromanage every inch of Jack’s life, and frankly, it sounded exhausting. “Alright,” Brock relented. “Sure. Just tell me where and when.” 

They stopped at Brock’s place first and Jack bid him a goodnight which was startling and pleasing before he closed the door and the cab pulled away from the curb. Brock dressed what wounds hadn’t already healed and got into bed. He hardly got any sleep, mind consumed with the fight. It had been an incredibly difficult, one that he wore like a badge of honor. He didn’t realize it had raised discontent. Granted Brock didn’t fight for anyone, would never consider it, but what started as an outlet with nothing to prove became a second life where he had a lot to prove. So it was his fault that he felt this way, he had let this happen. In fact, before Jack (arguable even now) the Pits was his first life and society was second, something distant and near unimportant. But, whether it was good or bad, he had something to prove and he was going to prove it or die trying. 

And he meant that. He really fucking did. 

** ** ** **

The gym was a bit eerie when it was empty. Jack set the key down and Brock shouldered off his duffel bag. “So what? Weights? Cardio?” 

“Shift.” 

“Sorry?” 

“You’re not training to work out are you? You’re training to fight.” 

Brock sighed and began to strip down. He shifted and sat down expectantly. Suddenly Jack hit him. Brock was on his feet in a second, snarling. “Don’t sit, you have to be ready at a moment's notice.” Jack said casually, as if he hadn’t just punched him in the head. He pulled a bite sleeve out of his bag. “Since I know you’ll have an issue with actually biting me.” 

Of course he would! He was already uncomfortable as is. Not that the bite sleeve was any comfort. It was a dog training device, not a shifter. It was a strange position to be, finding the idea of training to fight demeaning while he found the actual fighting liberating. 

“Okay,” Jack said. “Show me what you can do.” 

Brock hesitated, pacing a moment wondering what in the fuck he got into agreeing to train with Jack who had been taught to kill, not fight. That was a huge difference. 

“Come on,” Jack said again, firmly. 

Brock took a deep breath and looked at his arm. It was held out, at least four feet from the ground. He began to worry that he wasn’t able to jump and hang on. Jack moved his arm pointedly and Brock drew in another calming breath before he jumped. He got his jaws attached, squeezing a moment before releasing and falling back against the mat. Brock wondered if the gym would have agreed to renting out the gym if they knew they were doing this. He seriously doubted it, and for good reason. This was crazy. 

“That was a bullshit attempt and you know it,” Jack sounded angry and that took Brock off guard. “You know how to do this, I’ve watched you in the Pits. If you want to lose, fine. I’m not going to waste my time with you then.” 

Waste his time? That was rich. He growled, he couldn’t help it.

Jack’s face lit up. “See? There’s Brock. C’mon again. Like you’re attacking that Kugsha. You’re stronger, you’re a hybrid, best of both breeds.” 

He was still wary -- he didn’t want to hurt Jack. He’d learned in his early days that he had the bite force of a wolf, strong enough to break bone. The German Shepherd had been surprisingly forgiving despite the injury. He said he had a good fighting spirit. From there Brock had been incredibly careful. Constantly reminding himself not to bite down too hard. The purpose was to fight, not maim. Brock didn’t want to hurt Jack but he was pushing him to. So he leaped up and sunk his teeth down. He held on a moment, neck muscles straining and he released, feet returning to the mat. A look towards Jack made his disappointment apparent. 

Brock wasn’t sure what he was missing, or how this was helping. He was well versed in biting things -- as Jack saw on Pit nights. 

“I don’t understand why you aren’t trying.” 

Brock shifted, too angry to be bashful about his nudity. “What do you mean not trying? Also, how is this helping?”

“You’re not trying,” Jack insisted. “I thought you wanted my help.” 

“I do but I don’t understand what you want.” 

“I want you to try. To do what I’m telling you. I don’t know what you’re afraid of -- hurting me? It’s not easy.”

“I’ve broken bones before.” 

Jack looked delighted. “Me too. It’s a nice feeling isn’t it? That crunch.” 

Brock stared at him a moment before shaking his head. “I didn’t find it nice, actually. And I don’t want a repeat.” 

“Bite until you reach the PVC then. And hold on as long as you can. Then we’ll move on.” 

Feeling even more uncertain Brock shifted back and Jack held his arm. Brock jumped, latching one with the soft bite with the front of his and snapping for a firm one, paws scrabbling at nothing. The strain wasn’t easy to ignore. His instinct was to let go but Jack wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t hang on so he mustered the strength to hand for about forty seconds before he let go. Jack still wasn’t pleased but he wasn’t disappointed. In fact he dropped down to a kneel and held out his arm. 

“When you bite you’re a puller. That’s not enough,” Jack told him. “I want you to be a pusher.” 

Brock cocked his head in confusion and Jack rolled his eyes as if he was the stupidest person on earth. Of course this was his first time helping someone with things like this, he imagined, so a certain level of understanding was necessary. “A puller is someone who pulls back when they bite, trying to drag them back so they can get a better grip. A push is offensive, shoving in and getting that grip without wasting energy or risking the target breaking free because you’re rushing them.” 

It made sense actually. Brock was a puller, taking a bite and ripping away so he could lurch in to make a flesh wound a muscle one. It was an easier task and Jack seemed pleased with his force, falling back on his heels once. Brock had let go completely, worried he’d hurt Jack but he shook his head. 

“No, you’re doing well. It took me ages to get the idea of a push bite.” 

Brock was a bit proud of that while at the same feeling bad that Jack ever had to learn this. They did a few more hang ons before Jack took off the sleeve and started to stack mats. Brock sat down before remembering Jack’s reaction to it last time. The activities were taxing and Brock had expected to be doing a standard gym workout, not getting a lesson in Attack Dog 101. He should have expected as much though, considering his willing teacher. 

Jack stood back, admired his stack and looked at Brock. “Jump on top.”

It was over four feet, maybe five and Brock thought he could maybe get his nose level with the top of stack but getting on top of it was impossible. 

“Get a running start and jump,” Jack said with an eye roll, like Brock was supposed to know all of this. “I made it low so you can work your way up.” 

Low? That was low? Brock’s ears pressed against his skull as he looked up at the barrier. It was going to be moritifying when he couldn’t make it. But he’d asked for Jack’s help and now he was going to see how hopeless Brock was for this kind of training. Brock should have known as much. He was okay among those like him but Jack came from a different world. A world where there was nothing but fighting, a world where he was raised to do one thing and one thing only. Brock walked back, tail dragging in defeat already. Still he was determined to give it all, even those the height intimidated him from across the wall. 

He sprinted hoping that speed would help. The wall got closer and he pushed off -- and smacked directly the mat, landing in a heap of embarrassment. He laid a moment, panting and feeling sorry for himself and Jack walked over and nudged him with his shoe. “Do it again.” 

Brock looked up and bore his teeth in a clear fuck off. Jack nudged him again, harder. Brock snapped at his shoe and Jack nudged him hard, a small kick in fact. “Do it again.” 

For the first time Brock considered biting him. But, he reminded himself, he was doing this for him. With a deep breath to smother the flames of fury, he did as expected. He tried jumping a bit further from the wall and he still hit the mats. Brock tried again, each one a failure. 

“Alright,” Jack finally said, removing a few mats. “Try it now.” 

He could jump on top of three of them with ease. The fourth a struggle and the fifth a failure. Jack showed mercy when Brock was panting for breath. 

It became a nightly routine. The bite sleeve and the mats. Four days later he was able to clear the seventh one and that satisfied Jack. During their fifth session the lessons changed drastically. “We’re going to spar.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not going easy on you and you’re not going to go easy on me.” 

“I’m sorry you want me to do what?” 

Jack stripped off his shirt exposing the chiseled body of a shifter who took care of both of his bodies. “Fight me.” 

He shifted down and he glared at him until Brock shifted down. His paws had barely touched the mats when Jack was jumping towards him. Brock ducked and sharp teeth latched on his shoulder blade, that pushing bite he told Brock about had his teeth gnawing into his flesh. It was painful, it was fucking painful, and Jack wasn’t letting go. Was this the side of Jack he’d yet to see but heard so much about this? This primitive, nearly blind attacking? Brock tore his body away, feeling tendons ripping on his teeth. Jack lurched forward but Brock dropped down, using his lithe body to evade his jaws. It was a game of avoidance for a while, Brock limping and bleeding. This wasn’t sparing, this was a fight. Jack was larger than him but Brock still outweighed him -- at least he thought so. Jack was all muscle, a machine built to kill. He dodged another bite, searching for an opening, a way to get the send this fight to a screeching halt so he could demand what the fuck Jack was doing. He waited for Jack to rush and, despite his shoulder, leapt up, landing to his left. He heaved his body weight into his shoulder, knocking Jack off balance. Then he sat down, staring at Brock who had never been so confused in his life. Jack got his feet and Brock growled in warning but he shifted. 

“Not bad. Your defense needs work but he can do that tomorrow.” 

Brock shifted back jaw agape, one hand on his wound. “What the fuck was that?” 

Jack pulled up his jeans. “What?”

“You attacked me.” 

“It’s sparring. Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Sparing doesn’t mean you give it your all.” 

“I know.”

“Then what was that?” 

“Me going easy on you. I knew that if I said I was going easy you wouldn’t try.” 

Brock stared at him. “You’re insane, you know that?” 

Jack shrugged. “Sure.” 

** ** ** ** 

Thursday came around and Brock was nervous. Jack had trained him hard, almost to the point of breaking, but Brock felt prepared. He’d been taught things that no shifter had, primitive urges kept locked away released. His fight had gathered a crowd. Everyone who came every now and then was there. And their rematch was first in the line up. He could see the Kugsha, a man with a broad set of shoulders and a look of determination. This was a matter of pride for both of them. His opponent felt cheated and that meant that this battle would be passionate on both sides. 

Brock was too smart to feel cocky. Cocky fighters didn’t win. No fight was a sure win. Things could turn in an instant. One wrong move could tip the scales. So no, despite being trained by a man raised to kill it didn’t give him an edge over his competitor. When he blinked he could see that fight, freeze frames of blood and teeth. And he was heading back there. But this time, this time they were going to make sure the win was obvious. 

Brock shifted and Jack gathered his clothes. Jack didn’t bid him good luck or offer a parting reassurance and Brock was glad for that. He had something to prove. Coddling words were wasted on him. The Kugsha entered first and Brock shortly afterwards. They stood on opposite sides of the pen and silence fell. The sound of latch sliding in place set the beginning of the fight. Neither moved. This wasn’t a fight of adrenaline or fury. It was more than that. It was human in a way. Two men in a pen fighting for respect they both felt they were owned. The Kugsha exposed that he had a plan when his lip crinkled up to expose bone white fangs that were seeking to bury itself into Brock’s flesh. 

And he let him. His fangs sunk into his shoulder blade -- the go to for shifters. The pain was sharp but Jack's instructions ran through his mind. Shifters weren’t trained the way Jack was, the way he’d taught Brock. This was as a soft bite, the only kind shifters knew -- and that meant his hard bite, bites with his molars, would be weak. So he threw his body into it, forcing the Kugsha’s jaw wider than they have been. The Kugsha backed off, trying to release but Brock pushed his body against his mouth again and again, forcing the shifter against the Pit wall, teeth stuck into Brock’s flesh. Brock held him there, before breaking free spinning around a circle, teeth closing in on the side of his throat. The Kugsha had only just stepped away from the wall he’d been pinned to and Brock slammed him against it with the push bite. The Kugsha yelped and Brock released only to snap down on his shoulder blade the same way Jack had done to him. A limp was an advantage for Brock. The Kugsha snapped at his face and Brock’s teeth closed down on his muzzle, ripping it open before he went back to tearing his teeth into the Kugsha’s shoulder. He wanted to look and see what Jack was thinking but he couldn’t take his eyes off his competitor. All it took was one distraction. 

He leaped back nimbly and Kugsha let out a frightening snarl. His teeth were red with the blood dripping down from his muzzle. Brock didn’t so much as raise a hackle in return. Jack had taught him that. Fear was a weakness, fear made you doubt yourself, fear gave his opponent more confidence. Brock didn’t move, letting the Kugsha decide his downfall. The Kugsha didn’t move either, his front leg tucked up because the muscle had been torn too badly to allow much movement. If the Kugsha didn’t want to choose, he’d help. It took a single bound, jaws open, to knock him to the ground, teeth hovering over his throat. The crowd broke out in objections or cheers, depending on who had kept faith in Brock or not. Brock stepped over him and to the arena door. 

Jack greeted him with a hug despite the fact he was naked. Brock had just gotten his pants on when a voice shouted. “NYPD, nobody move!” 

Naturally everyone started to move only to find the exits blocked. Brock’s high of winning faded to dread. “Should we attack?” Jack asked quietly. 

“No,” Brock said immediately. “No. We’re… We’re going to get arrested.” 

“Oh.” Jack said. “It’s not so bad.”

Only Jack would think that. 

** ** ** **

“Steve?” 

“Brock? Do you have any idea how late it is?” 

“I know I just… Do you mind picking us up?” 

“Us?” 

“Jack and I.” 

“Uh, sure, I guess. Where are you?” 

Brock bit his lip. “The police station.” 

Steve was quiet a moment and then said, “I’m coming right now, okay?” 

With his eyes shut and a rock in his gut he said, “Okay. Thank you.” 

Jack didn’t seem to mind being cuffed to a bench. “That was a great fight Brock,” Jack said and a police woman sitting at the desk beside them looked over. 

“Not the time,” Brock muttered but he was still proud of his win. Even if it had ended poorly. “Steve’s coming to get us.” 

“The Retriever?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“I hope he brings the Husky. I think he’d be interested in how your fight turned out.” 

Brock sighed heavily. “No, he won’t. So please don’t bring it up.” 

With a confused expression he nodded his head. They sat in silence for fifteen minutes before Jack sniffed the air and said, “The Retriever is here. Not the Husky though.” 

Brock was grateful for that. He was embarrassed enough as it was. When they stepped out Steve was there looking incredibly angry. “I can’t believe you.” he said. “God what were you thinking? Bloodsports?” 

“I know,” Brock cut in. “I know, I know. It was stupid of me.” 

“Yes it is! Look at you, you’re bleeding.” 

“The other guy is way worse,” Jack said and Steve stared at him. 

“I thought you were helping your friend get out of this kind of thing. Bringing him to underground fights isn’t how you do that, Brock. But you know that, don’t you?” 

“It was a lapse in judgement, okay?” 

“Is this the first time?” Brock didn’t say anything so Steve said, “This is why your sick days are always on Fridays. Here I was thinking that it was just your way of getting a four day weekend. Instead you were too injured.” 

“I’m sorry Steve.” 

“I can’t believe you would do something like this. I… I feel like I hardly know you, Brock.” Steve shook his head. “Do you have fare for a cab or should I drop you two off?”

“I have enough for a cab.” 

“Good, I’ll meet you at my house at 6.” 

“Steve -- ”

“I’m not asking.” 

Brock wondered if he was going to get fired as he nodded. Steve looked at Jack and asked if he was okay. 

“I didn’t get my fight, which is disappointing. But Brock did incredible. Push biting is the trick.” 

Steve just stared. “Jack, not a good time.” Brock cut in.

Jack frowned at him. “But he’s your friend. He should be happy for you.” 

“I’m not happy for him,” Steve said firmly. “What he did was wrong.” 

Jack continued to frown and Brock felt like a piece of shit. 

** ** ** **

Brock rang up to Steve’s apartment and was met with not only Steve and Bucky but Clint as well. And Clint looked absolutely furious. He was on his feet the second the door swung shut. “How could you?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be helping him, not treating him like your personal fight dog.” 

“It’s not like that okay?”

“And what is it like, Brock?” Clint crossed his arms across his chest, blue eyes stormy. 

“I met him at the Pits. Not at the bar like I said. We went to the bar afterwards and…. No, you know what, you guys don’t get to judge me. Not when you shift into a domesticated canine. You don’t know what it’s like to have that wild side to you. The Pits are the only place you can express that. Jack has it, just like me. I’m sorry I got caught, I’m not sorry about going there. But… You’re right Clint, I should have discouraged it but what other outlet is there for those urges?” 

“Therapy,” Bucky said dryly. “Something that’s not a misdemeanor?” 

“Talking isn’t going to make the urges go away. It’s not psychological, it’s physical.” 

“So put it somewhere useful,” Clint said. “There are places you could. There’s with mannequins you can go to that are literally for, y’know, bloodlust. Natasha goes. They even made it so it bleeds.” 

Steve cringed like the idea disgusted him. It probably did. But Brock had no idea that they existed. 

“Your insurance will even pay for membership because it’s cheaper than when you have a fit and, y’know, hurting someone.” Clint added. “So there are other options. That’s not an excuse.” 

“I didn’t know they existed,” Brock admitted. “Look, I get that the Pits aren’t perfect and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner but… But I didn’t want to get looks like you’re all looking at me now. Like I’m some monster. We’re all consenting adults.” 

“Doing something illegal,” Steve cut in. “I want you to promise me -- promise us -- that you’re not going to do this again. Because you’re not gonna have someone to bail you out.” 

“I promise.” Brock said. It was easy to promise when he had no way to violate it. “I promise I won’t and Jack won’t either.” 

Clint looked at him through narrowed eyes, as if checking to see if he was being honest or not. “You better,” he finally settled. 

“Am I fired?” Brock asked. 

“You ought to be,” Steve said. “But no, a misdemeanor isn’t grounds for a dismal, had I wanted to fire you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brock said again. 

“Show me,” Steve replied. “Anyway, scrambled eggs or over easy?” 

Brock really fucking lucky he had friends like this. 

** ** ** **

Jack had added two chairs to his furniture, his makeshift kennel was still erected though the cushion and blankets were inside which made Brock feel a little better. The collar hung on a nail on the wall and Brock figured it was better than being around his neck. Jack was pouring them sangria while Brock tried to think of the best way to break it to him. 

“We can’t go to Pits anymore.” 

Jack turned around with the glasses. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“They closed it didn’t they?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“Then we can’t go anymore. It was a great win though, Brock. It could have been better but you won and that’s what’s important.” 

Brock was proud of that win and he didn’t regret it in the least but he didn’t think he could accept a casual okay from Jack. “I should have protected you better, Jack. I’m supposed to be helping you and instead I get you arrested.”

“I’ve been arrested before.” 

“That doesn’t matter. I failed you, Jack.” 

“It’s okay. You’re still the best -- and only -- boyfriend I’ve ever had.” 

Brock’s mind went blank. Boyfriend? How did Jack even know… Right, the couple at the Monument. Brock opened his mouth and then shut it. This was Jack telling him he loved him; loved him more than friends. And, well, he could see why he would consider himself his boyfriend. It made sense. They were boyfriends, weren’t they. Why hadn’t Brock realized it? 

“I’m still sorry Jack.” 

“It’s okay,” Jack insisted. 

Brock didn’t think so but there wasn’t much he could do until their court date where Brock intended to put all the blame on himself. 

Court rolled around that Thursday, ironically enough, and when Brock stepped in the judge peered at his name. “Six hundred dollar fine,” he said. “Civil judgement.” 

Brock blinked and found himself walking out. Jack was there, grinning. “Just a fine right?” 

“Uh, yeah… How’d you know that?” 

“I told the judge you were helping me. I’ve discovered that my life before here makes people nicer to me. So I tried it on the judge and it worked.” Jack grabbed him and jerked him forward, pressing their lips together. “We should go buy more potatoes.” 

Brock uttered a nervous laugh. “Uh, yeah. Let’s do that.” 

Jack was in good spirits as he strolled through Aldi, Jack’s hand on the cart as he selected the potatoes he deemed acceptable. Brock was still thinking about the kiss. He didn’t know what the future held for him, besides helping Jack recover. This relationship -- it was a relationship, wasn’t it? -- was fledgling, a steady flame that Brock wanted to explore. But he’d go at Jack’s speed, figure out what it was like to be a boyfriend to a shifter like Jack. 

But he was looking forward to it.


End file.
